c*  / 


THE  GYPSY  BREYNTON  SERIES. 


GYPSY  BREYNTON.' 


"GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY:" 

In  which  Joy  comes  to  Yorkbury. 


"GYPSY'S  SOWING  AND  REAPING:" 

Which  concerns  Gypsy  and  Tom. 


"GYPSY'S  YEAR  AT  THE  GOLDEN 
CRESCENT:" 

In  which  Gypsy  goes  to  boarding-school. 


THE     G  Y  r»  3  Y     SKRIES. 


GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 


J 

BT 

E.   STUART  PHELPS 

AUTHOR  OF  "GYPSY  BREYNTON." 


NEW  YORK: 
DODD    AND    MEAD, 

751  BROADWAY. 

1875. 


COPTBIOHT. 

DODD  &  MEAD. 

1875.  c    <     c    , 


PS  31  40, 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 
NEWS      .  .  .  .  .  .11 

CHAPTER   II. 
SHALL  SHE  COME?    .....          27 

CHAPTER    IH. 
ONE  EVENING     .  .  .  .  .  .    42 

CHAPTER    IV. 
CHESTNUTS    ......          55 

CHAPTER    V. 
GYPSY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY    .  .  .  .82 

CHAPTER    VI. 
WHO  PUT  IT  IN?  .  .  .  .          99 

CHAPTER    VII. 
PEACE  MAYTIIORNE'S  ROOM      ...  121 


10  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE  STORY  OP  A  NIGHT     .  .  .  .146 

CHAPTER    IX. 
CP  RATTLESNAKE  •  •  .  .  183 

CHAPTER    X. 
WE  ARE  LOST!  .  205 

CHAPTER   XI. 

GRAND  TIMES     .  .  .  .  223 

CHAPTER    XII. 
A  TELEGRAM  .  237 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
A  SUNDAY  NIGHT          ....  257 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
GOOD-BT 268 


GYPSY'S  COUSIN   JOY. 


CHAPTE     &;:          : 


)HE   second    arithmetic   class   had  just 
come    out  to   recite,    when    somebody 
knocked   at   the  door.      Miss  Cardrew 
sent  Delia  Guest  to  open  it. 
«  It's  a  —  ha,  ha  !  letter  —  he  he  I  for  you," 
said  Delia,  coming  up  to  the  desk.     Exactly 
wherein  lay  the  joke,  in  the  fact  that  Miss  Car 
drew  should  have  a  letter,  nobody  but  Delia  was 
capable  of  seeing  ;  but  Delia  was  given  to  see 
ing  jokes  on   all  occasions,  under  all   circum 
stances.     Go    wherever    you    might,    from    a 
prayer-meeting  to   the    playground,  you   were 
sure  to  hear  her  little  giggle. 

M89025 


12  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"A  letter  for  you,"  repeated  Delia  Guest. 
"He,  he!"  . 

Miss  Cardrew  laid  down  her  arithmetic, 
opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 

•"  •  Q^PS7  Brey  nton . " 

The. arith'riieHc' class  stopped  whispering,  and 
.tljere'.wqi  .U  great  lull  iii  th'$  school-room. 

"  Why  I  never  !  "  giggled  Delia.  Gypsy,  all 
in  a  flutter  at  having  her  name  read  right  out 
in  school,  and  divided  between  her  horror  lest 
the  kitten  she  had  tied  to  a  spool  of  thread  at 
recess,  had  been  discovered,  and  an  awful 
suspicion  that  Mr.  Jonathan  Jones  saw  her  run 
across  his  ploughed  field  after  chestnuts,  went 
slowly  up  to  the  desk. 

"  Your  mother  has  sent  for  you  to  come  di 
rectly  home,"  said  Miss  Cardrew,  in  a  low  tone. 
Gypsy  looked  a  little  frightened. 

"  Go  home!  Is  any  body  sick,  Miss  Car 
drew?" 

* '  She  doesn't  say,  —  she  gives  no  reasons. 
You'd  better  not  stop  to  talk,  Gypsy." 


'  NEWS.  13 

Gypsy  went  to  her  desk,  and  began  to  gather 
up  her  books  as  fast  as  she  could. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  the  house  'd 
caught  afire,"  whispered  Agnes  Gaylord.  "I 
had  an  uncle  once,  and  his  house  caught  afire. 
—  in  the  chimney  too,  and  everybody  'd  gone  to 
a  prayer-meeting ;  they  had  now,  true's  you 
live." 

66  Maybe  your  father's  dead,"  condoled  Sarah 
Rowe. 

61  Or  Winnie." 

«  Or  Tom." 

"Just  think  of  it!  " 

' *  What  do  you  s'pose  it  is  ?  " 

tj  If  I  were  you,  I  guess  I'd  be  frightened  ! " 

"  Order!"  said  Miss  Cardrew,  in  a  loud 
voice.  The  girls  stopped  whispering,  and 
Gypsy  in  nowise  reassured  by  their  sympathy, 
hurried  out  to  put  on  her  things.  With  her 
hat  thrown  on  one  side  of  her  head,  the  strings 
hanging  down  into  her  eyes,  her  sack  rolled 


14  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

up  in  a  bundle  under  her  arm,  and  her  rub 
bers  in  her  pocket,  she  started  for  home  on  the 
full  run.  Yorkbury  was  pretty  well  used  to 
Gypsy,  but  everybody  stopped  and  stared  at 
her  that  morning;  what  with  her  burning 
cheeks,  and  those  rubbers  sticking  out  of  her 
pocket,  and  the  hat-strings  flying,  and  the 
brambles  catching  her  dress,  and  the  mud 
splashing  up  under  her  swift  feet,  it  was  no 
wonder. 

4 'Miss  Gypsy!"  called  old  Mr.  Simms,  the 
clerk,  as  she  flew  by  the  door  of  her  father's 
book  store.  "  Miss  Gypsy,  my  dear  I  " 

But  on  ran  Gypsy  without  so  much  as  giving 
him  a  look,  across  the  road,  in  front  of  a  car 
riage,  around  a  load  of  hay,  and  away  like  a 
bird  down  the  street.  Out  ran  Gypsy's  pet 
aversion,  Mrs.  Surly,  from  a  shop  door  some 
where,  — 

"  Gypsy  Breynton,  what  a  sight  you  be  !  I 
believe  you're  gone  clear  crazy,  —  Gypsy  !  " 


NEWS.  15 

"  Can't  stop  I"  shouted  Gypsy,  "  it's  a  fire 
or  something  somewhere." 

Eight  small  boys  at  the  word  "  fire"  appeared 
on  the  instant  from  nobody  knew  where,  and 
ran  after  her  with  hoarse  yells  of  ' '  fire  !  fire  ! 

Where's  the  engine  ?  Vi ir  -  r  -  !  "  By 

this  time  too,  three  dogs  and  a  nanny-goat  were 
chasing  her ;  the  dogs  were  barking,  and  the 
nanny-goat  was  baaing  or  braying,  or  whatever 
it  is  that  nanny-goats  do,  so  she  swept  up  to  the 
house  in  a  unique,  triumphal  procession. 

Winnie  came  out  to  meet  her  as  she  came  in 
at  the  gate  panting  and  scarlet-faced. 

Fifty  years  instead  of  five,  might  Winnie  have 
been  at  that  moment,  and  all  the  cares  of  Church 
and  State  on  the  shoulders  of  his  pinafore,  to 
judge  from  the  pucker  in  his  chin.  There  was 
always  a  pucker  in  Winnie's  chin,  when  he  felt, 
—  as  the  boys  call  it  —  "  big." 

"  What  do  s'pose,  Gypsy  ?— don't  you  wish 
you  knew  ?  " 

"What?" 


16  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Oh,  no  matter,     /know." 

'•Winnie  Breynton  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Winnie,  with  the  air  of  a  Grand 
Mogul  feeding  a  chicken,  "  I  don't  care  if  I  tell 
you.  We've  had  a  temmygral." 

* «  A  telegram  !  " 

"  I  just  guess  we  have,  you'd  oughter  seen 
the  man.  He'd  lost  his  nose,  and  —  " 

"A  telegram!  Is  there  any  bad  news? 
Where  did  it  come  from  ?  " 

"  It  came  from  Bosting,"  said  Winnie,  with  a 
superior  smile.  "I  s'posed  you  knew  that! 
It's  sumfin  about  Aunt  Miranda,  I  shouldn't 
wonder." 

'  *  Aunt  Miranda  !  Is  any  body  sick  ?  la 
anybody  dead,  or  anything?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Winnie,  cheerfully. 
"  But  I  guess  you  wish  you'd  seen  the  envelope. 
It  had  the  funniest  little  letters  punched  through 
on  top  —  it  did  now,  really." 

Gypsy  ran  into  the  house  at  that,  and  left 
Winnie  to  his  meditations. 


NEWS.  17 

Her  mother  called  her  from  over  the  ban 
isters,  and  she  ran  up  stairs.  A  small  trunk 
stood  open  by  the  bed,  and  the  room  was  filled 
with  the  confusion  of  packing. 

"Your  Aunt  Miranda  is  sick,"  said  Mrs. 
Breynton. 

*  *  What  are  you  packing  up  for  ?  You're  not 
going  off! "  exclaimed  Gypsy,  incapable  of 
taking  in  a  greater  calamity  than  that,  and 
quite  forgetting  Aunt  Miranda. 

"Yes.  Your  uncle  has  written  for  us  to 
come  right  on.  She  is  very  sick,  Gypsy." 

"Oh,"  said  Gypsy,  penitently,  "danger 
ous?" 

"Yes." 

Gypsy  looked  sober  because  her  mother  did, 
and  she  thought  she  ought  to. 

'  *  Your  father  and  I  are  going  in  this 
noon  train,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Breynton,  rolling 
up  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  folding  a  wrapper 
away  in  the  trunk.  "  I  think  I  am  needed. 


18  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

The  fever  is  very  severe ;  possibly  —  con 
tagious,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  quietly.  Mrs. 
Breynton  made  it  a  rule  to  have  very  few  con 
cealments  from  her  children.  All  family  plans 
which  could  be,  were  openly  and  frankly  dis 
cussed.  She  believed  that  it  did  the  children 
good  to  feel  that  they  had  a  share  in  them  ;  that 
it  did  them  good  to  be  trusted.  She  never  kept 
bad  tidings  from  them  simply  because  they  were 
bad.  The  mysteries  and  prevarications  neces 
sary  to  keep  an  unimportant  secret,  were,  she 
reasoned,  worse  for  them  than  a  little  anxiety. 
Gypsy  must  know  sometime  about  her  aunt's 
sickness.  She  preferred  she  should  hear  it  from 
her  mother's  lips,  see  for  herself  the  reasons  for 
this  sudden  departure  and  risk,  if  risk  there 
were,  and  be  woman  enough  to  urderstand 
them. 

Gypsy  looked  sober  now  in  earnest. 

"  Why  mother  1     How  can  you?     What  if 
you  catch,  it  ?  " 


NEWS.  19 

"  There  is  very  little  chance  of  that ;  one 
possibility  in  a  hundred,  perhaps.  Help  me 
fold  up  this  dress,  Gypsy,  —  no,  on  the  bed  — 

80." 

"But  if  you  should  get  sick!  I  don't  see 
why  you  need  go.  She  isn't  your  own  sister 
anyway,  and  she  never  did  anything  for  us,  nor 
cared  anything  for  us." 

"  Your  uncle  wants  me,  and  that  is  enough. 
I  want  to  be  to  her  a  sister  if  I  can,  —  poor 
thing,  she  has  no  sister  of  her  own,  and  no 
mother,  nobody  but  hired  nurses  with  her ;  and 
she  may  die,  Gypsy.  If  I  can  be  of  any  help, 
I  am  glad  to  be." 

Her  mother  spoke  in  a  quiet,  decided  tone, 
with  which  Gypsy  knew  there  was  no  arguing. 
She  helped  her  fold  her  dresses  and  lock  her 
trunk,  very  silently,  for  Gypsy,  and  then  ran 
away  to  busy  herself  with  Patty  in  getting  the 
travellers'  luncheon.  When  Gypsy  felt  badly, 
she  always  hunted  up  something  to  do  ;  in  this 


20  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

she  showed  the  very  best  of  her  good  sense. 
And  let  me  tell  you,  girls,  as  a  little  secret,  — 
in  the  worst  fits  of  the  "blues"  you  ever 
have,  if  you  are  guilty  of  having  any,  do 
you  go  straight  into  the  nursery  and  build  a 
block  house  for  the  baby,  or  up  stairs  and  help 
your  mother  baste  for  the  machine,  or  into  the 
dining-room  to  help  Bridget  set  the  table,  or 
into  the  corner  where  some  diminutive  brother 
is  crying  over  his  sums  which  a  very  few  words 
from  you  would  straighten,  or  into  the  parlor 
where  your  father  sits  shading  his  eyes  from  the 
lamp-light,  with  no  one  to  read  him  the  paper  ; 
and  before  you  know  it,  you  will  be  as  happy 
as  a  queen.  You  don't  believe  it?  Try  and 
see. 

Gypsy  drowned  her  sorrow  at  her  mother's 
departure,  in  broiling  her  mutton-chops  and  cut 
ting  her  pie,  and  by  the  time  the  coach  drove 
to  the  door,  and  the  travellers  stood  in  the  entry 
with  bag  and  baggage,  all  ready  to  start,  the 


NEWS.  21 

smiles  had  come  back  to  her  lips,  and  the 
twinkle  to  her  eyes. 

1  '  Good-by  father  !  O  —  oh,  mother  Breyn- 
ton,  give  me  another  kiss.  There  !  —  one  more. 
Now  if  you  don't  write  just  as  soon  as  you  get 
there !  " 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  and  take  nice  care  of  Win 
nie,"  called  her  mother,  from  the  coach- window. 
And  then  they  were  driven  rapidly  away,  and 
the  house  seemed  to  grow  still  and  dark  all  at 
once,  and  a  great  many  clouds  to  be  in  the 
warm,  autumn  sky.  The  three  children  stood  a 
moment  in  the  entry  looking  forlornly  at  each 
other.  I  beg  Tom's  pardon — I  suppose  I  should 
have  said  the  two  children  and  the  ' '  young 
man."  Probably  never  again  in  his  life  will 
Tom  feel  quite  as  old,  as  he  felt  in  that  six 
teenth  year.  Gypsy  was  the  first  to  break  the 
dismal  silence. 

* 4  How  horrid  it's  going  to  be  !  You  go  up 
stairs  and  she  won't  be  there,  and  there'll  be  no- 


22  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

body  coining  home  from  the  store  at  night,  and, 
then  —  you  go  round,  and  it's  so  still,  and  no 
body  but  me  to  keep  house,  and  Patty  has  just 
what  she  likes  for  breakfast,  for  all  me,  and  7 
think  Aunt  Miranda  needn't  have  gone  and  been 
sick,  anyway." 

"A  most  sensible  and  sympathizing  niece," 
observed  Tom,  in  his  patronizing  way. 

61  Well  you  see,  I  suppose  I  don't  care  very 
much  about  Aunt  Miranda,"  said  Gypsy,  con 
fidentially.  "  I'm  sorry  she's  sick,  but  I  didn't 
have  a  bit  nice  time  in  Boston  last  vacation, 
and  she  scolded  me  dreadfully  when  I  blew  out 
the  gas.  What  is  it,  Patty?  Oh  yes  —  come 
to  dinner,  boys." 

"I  say,"  remarked  Winnie,  at  the  rather 
doleful  dinner-table,  — 

"Look  here,  Gypsy." 

"  What?" 

"  S'posin'  when  they'd  got  Aunt  Miranda  all 
nailed  into  her  coffin  —  tight  in,  she  should  be 


NEWS.  23 

im-deaded,  and  open  her  eyes,  and  begin  — 
begin  to  squeal,  you  know.  S'pose  they'd  let 
her  out?" 

Just  four  days  from  the  morning  Mrs. 
Breynton  left,  Tom  came  up  from  the  office 
with  a  very  sober  face  and  a  letter. 

Gypsy  ran  out  to  meet  him,  and  put  out  her 
hand,  in  a  great  hurry  to  read  it. 

"  I'll  read  it  to  you,"  said  Tom,  "  it's  to  me. 
Come  into  the  parlor." 

They  went  in,  and  Tom  read  :  — 


DEAR  SON:  — 
1  write  in  great  haste,  just  to  let  you  know 
thai  your  Aunt  Miranda  is  gone.  She  died  last 
night  at  nine  o'clock,  in  great  distress.  I  was 
with  her  at  the  last.  I  am  glad  1  came  — very  ; 
it  seems  to  have  been  a  comfort  to  her ;  she  was 
so  lonely  and  deserted.  The  funeral  is  day  after 
to-morrow,  and  we  shall  stay  of  course.  We 
hope  to  be  home  on  Monday.  There  has  been 
no  time  yet  to  make  any  plans  ;  I  can't  tell  what 


24  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

the  family  will  do.  Poor  Joy  cannot  bear  to  be 
left  alone  a -minute.  She  follows  me  round  like 
a  frightened  child.  The  tears  come  into  my  eyes 
every  time  I  look  at  her,  for  the  thoughts  of 
three  dear,  distant  faces  that  might  be  left  just 
so,  but  for  God's  mercy  to  them  and  to  me.  She 
is  just  about  Gypsy's  age  and  height,  you  know. 
The  disease  proved  not  to  be  contagious,  so  yon 
need  feel  no  anxiety.  A  kiss  to  both  the  chil 
dren.  Your  father  sends  much  love.  We  shall 
be  glad  to  get  home  and  see  you  again. 

Very  lovingly, 

MOTHER." 

Inside  the  note,  was  a  slip  for  Gypsy  with 
this  written  on  it :  — 

"  I  must  stop  to  tell  you  Gypsy,  of  a  little  thing 
your  aunt  said  the  day  before  she  died.  She  had 
been  speaking  of  Joy  in  her  weak,  troubled 
way,  —  of  some  points  wherein  she  hoped  she 
would  be  a  different  woman  from  her  mother,  and 
had  then  lain  still  awhile,  her  eyes  closed,  some' 


NEWS.  25 

tiling — as  you  used  to  say  when  you  were  a 
little  girl  —  very  sorry  about  her  mouth,  when 
suddenly  she  turned  and  said  '  I  wish  I'd  made 
Gypsy's  visit  here  a  little  pleasanter.  Tell  her 
she  must  think  as  well  as  she  can  of  her  auntie, 
for  Joy's  sake  now/  " 

Gypsy  folded  up  the  paper,  and  sat  silent  a 
moment,  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  as  Tom 
saw,  and  not  wishing  to  be  spoken  to. 

Those  of  you  who  have  read  ' '  Gypsy  Breyn- 
ton  "  will  understand  what  these  thoughts  might 
be.  Those  who  have  not,  need  only  know  that 
Gypsy's  aunt  had  been  rather  a  gay,  careless 
lady,  well  dressed  and  jewelled,  and  fond  enough 
of  dresses  and  jewels  ;  and  that  in  a  certain  visit 
Gypsy  made  her  not  long  ago,  she  had  been  far 
from  thoughtful  of  her  country  niece's  comfort. 

And  this  was  how  it  had  ended.  Poor  Aunt 
Miranda  ! 

"  Well,"  said  Gypsy,  at  last,  with  something 
dim  in  her  eyes,  "  I  dare  say  I  was  green  and 


26  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

awkward,  and  it  was  half  my  fault.  I  never 
could  understand  how  people  could  just  turn 
round  when  anybody  dies,  and  say  they  were 
good  and  perfect,  when  it  wasn't  any  such  a 
thing,  and  I  can't  say  I  think  she  was,  for  it 
would  be  a  lie.  But  I  wront  say  anything  more 
against  her.  Poor  Joy,  poor  Joy  !  Not  to  have 
any  mother,  Tom,  just  think  !  Oh,  just  think  !  " 


CHAPTER  H. 

SHALL    SHE     COME  ? 

UPPER  was  ready.  It  had  been  ready 
now  for  ten  minutes.  The  cool,  white 
cloth,  bright  glass,  glittering  silver,  and 
delicate  china  painted  with  a  primrose 
and  an  ivy-leaf,  —  the  best  china,  and  very  ex 
travagant  in  Gypsy  of  course,  but  she  thought 
the  occasion  deserved  it,  —  were  all  laid  in  their 
places  upon  the  table.  The  tea  was  steeped  to 
precisely  the  right  point ;  the  rich,  mellow 
flavor  had  just  escaped  the  clover  taste  on  one 
side,  and  the  bitterness  of  too  much  boiling  on 
the  other;  the  delicately  sugared  apples  were 
floating  in  their  amber  juices  in  the  round  glasa 
27 


28  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

preserve-dish,  the  smoked  halibut  was  done  to 
the  most  delightful  brown  crispness,  the  puffy, 
golden  drop-cakes  were  smoking  from  the  oven, 
and  Patty  was  growling  as  nobody  but  Patty 
could  growl,  for  fear  they  would  "  slump  down 
intirely  an'  be  gittin'  as  heavy  as  lead,"  before 
they  could  be  eaten. 

There  was  a  bright  fire  in  the  dining-room 
grate  ;  the  golden  light  was  dancing  a  jig  all 
over  the  walls,  hiding  behind  the  curtains,  co 
quetting  with  the  silver,  and  touching  the 
primroses  on  the  plates  to  a  perfect  sunbeam ; 
for  father  and  mother  were  coining.  Tom  and 
Gypsy  and  Winnie  were  all  three  running  to 
the  windows  and  the  door  every  two  minutes 
and  dressed  in  their  very  "  Sunday-go-to-meet 
ing  best ; "  for  father  and  mother  were  coming. 
Tom  had  laughed  well  at  this  plan  of  dressing 
up  —  Gypsy's  notion  of  course,  and  ridiculous 
enough,  said  Tom  ;  fit  for  babies  like  Winnie, 
and  gins.  (I  wish  I  could  give  you  in  print, 


SHALL   SHE    COME?  29 

the  peculiar  emphasis  with  which  Tom  was  wont 
to  dwell  on  this  word.)  But  for  all  that,  when 
Gypsy  came  down  in  her  new  Scotch  plaid 
dress,  with  her  cheeks  so  red,  and  her  hair  so 
Pxnooth  and  black ;  and  Winnie  strutted  across 
the  room  counting  the  buttons  on  his  best  jacket, 
Tom  slipped  away  to  his  room,  and  came  down 
with  his  purple  neck-tie  on. 

It  made  a  pretty,  homelike  picture  —  the 
bright  table  and  the  firelight,  and  the  eager  faces 
ut  the  window,  and  the  gay  dresses.  Any 
father  and  mother  might  have  been  glad  to  call 
it  all  their  own,  and  come  into  it  out  of  the 
cold  and  the  dark,  after  a  weary  day's  journey. 

These  cosey,  comfortable  touches  about  it  — 
the  little  conceit  of  the  painted  china,  and  the 
**2st  clothes  —  were  just  like  Gypsy.  Since 
-she  was  glad  to  see  her  father  and  mother,  it 
was  imperatively  necessary  that  she  should  show 
it ;  there  was  no  danger  but  what  her  joy  would 
have  been  sufficiently  evident — where  everything 


30  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

else  was —  in  her  eyes  ;  but  according  to  Gypsy's 
view  of  matters,  it  must  express  itself  in  some 
sort  of  celebration.  Whether  her  mother 
wouldn't  have  been  quite  as  well  pleased  if  her 
delicate,  expensive  porcelain  had  been  kept 
eafely  in  the  closet;  whether  indeed,  it  was  ex 
actly  right  for  her  to  take  it  out  without  leave, 
Gypsy  never  stopped  to  consider.  When  she 
wanted  to  do  a  thing,  she  could  never  see  any 
reasons  why  it  shouldn't  be  done,  like  a  few 
other  girls  I  have  heard  of  in  New  England. 
However,  just  such  a  mother  as  Gypsy  had, 
was  quite  likely  to  pardon  such  a  little  careless 
ness  as  this,  for  the  love  in  it,  and  the  welcom 
ing  thoughts. 

"  They're  comin',  comin',  comin',"  shouted 
Winnie,  from  the  door-steps,  where,  in  the  ex 
uberance  of  his  spirits  he  was  trying  very  hard 
to  stand  on  his  head,  and  making  a  most  re 
markable  failure,  "they're  comin'  lickitycut, 
and  I'm  five  years  old  'n'  I've  got  on  my  bast 
jacket,  'n'  they're  comin'  slam  bang  1 " 


SHALL    SHE    COME?  31 

"  Coming,  coming,  coming  !  "  echoed  Gypsy, 
about  as  wild  as  Winnie  himself,  and  flying  past 
him  down  to  the  gate,  leaving  Tom  to  follow  in 
Tom's  own  dignified  way. 

Such  a  kissing,  and  laughing,  and  talking, 
and  delightful  confusion  as  there  was  then ! 
Such  a  shouldering  of  bags  and  valises  and 
shawls,  such  hurrying  of  mother  in  out  of  the 
cold;  such  a  pulling  of  father's  whiskers,  such 
peeping  into  mysterious  bundles,  and  pulling 
off  of  wrappers,  and  hurrying  Patty  with  the 
tea-things ;  and  questions  and  answers,  and 
everybody  talking  at  once,  —  one  might  have 
supposed  the  travellers  had  been  gone  a  month 
instead  of  a  week. 

"My  kitty  had  a  fit,"  observed  Winnie,  in 
the  first  pause  he  could  find. 

"  And  there  are  some  letters  for  father,"  — 
from  Tom. 

"  Patty  has  a  new  beau,"  interrupted  Gypsy. 

"  It  was  an  awfully  fit,"  put  in  Winnie,  undis- 


32  GYJ'SY'S    COUSIN    JOY. 

couraged,  "  she  rolled  under  the  stove  V  I  tell 
vou  she  squealed,  and  —  " 

"  Plow  is  uncle?  "  asked  Tom,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  any  one  had  thought  to  ask. 

"  Then  she  jumped  —  splash  !  into  the  hogs 
head,"  continued  Winnie,  determined  to  finish. 

"  He  is  not  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Breynton, 
gravely,  and  then  they  sat  down  to  supper,  talk 
ing  the  while  about  him.  Winnie  subsided  in 
great  disgust,  and  devoted  himself,  body,  mind, 
and  heart,  to  the  drop-cakes. 

"  Ah,  the  best  china,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Breyn 
ton,  presently,  with  one  of  her  pleasante,st 
smiles,  and,  jn  Mrs.  Brenton's  smiles  were 
always  pleasant,  this  was  saying  a  great  deal. 
"  And  the  Sunday  things  on  too,  —  in  honor  cf 
our  coming  ?  How  pleasant  it  all  seems  !  and 
how  glad  I  am  to  be  at  home  again." 

Gypsy  looked  radiant,  —  very  m  ich  in  fact, 
like  a  little  sun  dropped  down  from  the  sky,  or 
a  jewel  all  ablaze. 


SHALL    SHE    COME?  33 

Some  mother's  would  have  reproved  her  for 
the  use  of  the  china ;  some  who  had  not  quite 
the  heart  to  reprove,  would  have  said  they  were 
sorry  she  had  taken  it  out.  Mrs.  Breynton 
would  rather  have  had  her  handsome  plates 
broken  to  atoms,  than  to  chill  by  so  much  as  a 
look,  the  glow  of  the  child's  face  just  then. 

There  was  decidedly  more  talking  than  eat 
ing  done  at  supper,  and  they  lingered  long  at 
the  table,  in  the  pleasant  firelight  and  lamp 
light. 

"  It  seems  exactly  like  the  resurrection  day 
for  all  the  world,"  said  Gypsy. 

*  *  The  resurrection  day  !  " 

< «  Why  yes ;  when  you  went  off  I  kept 
thinking  everybody  was  dead  and  buried,  all 
that  morning,  and  it  was  real  horrid,  —  Oh,  you 
don't  know  !  " 

"  Gypsy,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  awhile  after 
supper,  when  Winnie  had  gone  to  bed,  and  Tom 
3 


34  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

and  his  father  were  casting  accounts  by  the  fire, 
« « I  want  to  see  you  a  few  minutes . " 

Gypsy  wondering,  followed  her  into  the 
parlor.  Mrs.  Breynton  shut  the  door,  and  they 
sat  down  together  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Gypsy, 
about  something  that  we'd  better  talk  over 
alone." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Gypsy,  quite  bewildered  by 
her  mother's  grave  manner,  and  thinking  up  all 
the  wrong  things  she  had  done  for  a  week. 
Whether  it  was  the  time  she  got  so  provoked  at 
Patty  for  having  dinner  late,  or  scolded  Win 
nie  for  trying  to  paint  with  the  starch,  (and  if 
ever  any  child  deserved  it,  he  did,)  or  got  kept 
after  school  for  whispering,  or  brought  down 
the  nice  company  quince  marmalade  to  eat  with 
the  blanc-mangc,  or  whether  — 

4 'You  havn't  asked  about  your  <;ousin  Joy," 
said  her  mother,  interrupting  her  thinking. 

«Oh,  —  how  is  she?"  said  Gypsy,  looking 
somewhat  ashamed. 


SHALL   SHE    COME?  35 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  child,"  said  Mrs.  Breyn- 
lon,  musingly. 

"  What's  going  to  become  of  her?  Who's 
going  to  take  care  of  her  ?  " 

* '  That  is  just  what  I  came  in  here  to  talk 
about." 

"  Why,  I  don't  see  what  I  have  to  do  with 
it !  "  said  Gypsy,  astonished. 

"  Her  father  thinks  of  going  abroad,  and  so 
there  would  be  no  one  to  leave  her  with.  He 
finds  himself  quite  worn  out  by  your  aunt's  sick 
ness,  the  care  and  anxiety  and  trouble.  His 
business  also  requires  some  member  of  the  firm 
to  go  to  France  this  fall,  and  he  has  almost  de 
cided  to  go.  The  only  thing  that  makes  him 
hesitate,  is  Joy." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean  now,  mother,  —  I  see 
it  in  your  eyes.  You  want  Joy  to  come  here." 
Gypsy  spoke  in  a  slow,  uncomfortable  way,  as 
if  she  were  trying  very  hard  not  to  believe  her 
own  words. 


So  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  jor. 

66  Yes, '  said  Mrs.  Breynton.  f  <  that  is  it." 

Gypsy's  bright  face  fell. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  at  last. 

"  I  told  your  uncle,"  said  her  mother,  "  that 
I  could  not  decide  on  the  spot,  but  would  let 
him  know  next  week.  The  question  of  Joy's 
coming  here  will  affect  you  more  than  any 
member  of  the  family,  and  I  thought  it  only 
fair  to  you,  that  we  should  talk  it  over  frankly, 
before  it  is  settled." 

Gypsy  had  a  vague  notion  that  all  mothers 
would  not  have  been  so  thoughtful,  but  she  said 
nothing. 

"  I  do  not  wish,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Breynton, 
•  *  to  make  any  arrangement  in  which  you 
cannot  be  happy ;  but  I  have  great  faith  in 
your  kind  heart,  Gypsy." 

"  I  don't  like  Joy,"  said  Gypsy,  bluntly. 

"  I  know  that,  and  I  am  sorry  it  is  so,"  said 
her  mother.  "  I  understand  just  what  Joy  is. 
But  it  is  not  all  her  fault.  She  has  not  been 


SHALL   SHE   COME?  37 

trained  just  as  you  have,  Gypsy.  She  was 
never  taught  and  helped  to  be  a  generous, 
gentle  child,  as  you  have  been  taught  and 
helped.  Your  uncle  and  aunt  felt  differently 
about  these  things;  but  it  is  no  matter  about 
that  now,  —  you  will  understand  it  better  when 
you  are  older.  It  is  enough  for  you  to  know 
that  Joy  has  great  excuse  for  her  faults.  Even 
if  they  were  twice  as  great  as  they  are,  one 
wouldn't  think  much  about  them  now ;  the  poor 
child  is  in  great  trouble,  lonely  and  frightened 
and  motherless.  Think,  if  God  took  away 
your  mother,  Gypsy." 

"  But  Joy  didn't  care  much  about  her 
mother,"  said  honest  Gypsy.  "  She  used  to 
scold  her,  Joy  told  me  so  herself.  Besides  I 
heard  her,  ever  so  many  times." 

4 «  Peace  be  with  the  dead ,  Gypsy  ;  —  let  all 
that  go.  She  was  all  the  mother  Joy  had,  and 
if  you  had  seen  what  I  saw  a  night  or  two 
before  I  came  away,  you  wouldn't  say  she  didn't 
love  her." 


38  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  What  was  it?  "  asked  Gypsy. 

"  Your  auntie  was  lying  all  alone,  up  stairs. 
I  went  in  softly,  to  do  one  or  two  little  thinga 
about  the  room,  thinking  no  one  was  there. 

61  One  faint  gas-light  was  burning,  and  in  the 
dimness,  I  saw  that  the  sheet  was  turned  down 
from  the  face,  and  a  poor  little  quivering  figure 
was  crouched  beside  it  on  the  bed.  It  was  Joy. 
She  was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break, 
and  such  sobs  —  it  would  have  made  you  cry  to 
hear  them,  Gypsy.  She  didn't  hear  me  come 
in,  and  she  began  to  talk  to  the  dead  face 
as  if  it  could  hear  her.  Do  you  want  to  know 
what  she  said  ?  " 

Gypsy  was  looking  very  hard  the  other  way. 
She  nodded,  but  did  not  speak,  gulping  down 
something  in  her  throat. 

"  This  was  what  she  said  —  softly,  in  Joy's 
frightened  way,  you  know.  <  You're  all  I  had, 
any  way,'  said  she.  *  All  the  other  girls  have 
got  mothers,  and  now  I  wont  ever  have  any, 


SHALL    SHE   COME?  39 

any  more.  I  did  used  to  bother  you  and  be 
cross  about  my  practising,  and  not  do  as  you 
told  me,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't,  and  —  ' 

«  Oh —  hum,  look  here  —  mother,"  inter 
rupted  Gypsy,  jumping  up  and  winking  very 
fast.  "  Isn't  there  a  train  up  from  Boston 
early  Monday  morning?  She  might  come  in 
that,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Breynton  smiled : 

"  Then  she  may  come,  may  she?" 

"  I  rather  think  she  may,"  said  Gypsy,  with 
an  emphasis.  "  I'll  write  her  a  letter  and  tell 
her  so." 

"  That  will  be  a  good  plan,  Gypsy.  But  you 
are  quite  sure  ?  I  don't  want  you  to  decide  this 
matter  in  too  much  of  a  hurry." 

"  She'll  sleep  in  the  front  room  of  course?  " 
suggested  Gypsy. 

"  No  ;  if  she  comes,  she  must  sleep  with  you. 
With  our  family  and  only  one  servant,  I  could 
hardly  keep  up  the  extra  work  that  would 
cause,  for  six  months  or  a  year." 


40  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Six  mouths  or  a  year  !     In  my  room  ! " 

Gypsy  walked  back  and  forth  across  the 
room  two  or  three  times,  her  merry  forehead  all 
wrinkled  into  a  knot. 

66  Well,"  at  last,  "  I've  said  it,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it,  and  I'll  try  to  make  her  have  a  good  time, 
anyway." 

"  Come  here,  Gypsy." 

Gypsy  came  here,  and  one  of  those  rare,  soft 
kisses  —  very  different  from  the  ordinary,  every 
day  kisses  —  that  her  mother  gave  her  when  she 
hadn't  just  the  words  to  say  how  pleased  she  was, 
fell  on  her  forehead,  and  smoothed  out  the  knot 
before  you  could  "  say  Jack  Robinson." 

That  very  afternoon  Gypsy  wrote  her  note 
to  Joy :  — 

"  DEAR  JOY  : 

I'm  real  sorry  your  mother  died.  You'd 
better  come  right  up  here  next  week,  and  we'll 
go  chestnutting  over  by  Mr.  Jonathan  Jones's. 
I  tell  you  it's  splendid  climbing  up.  If  you're 


SHALL    SHE    COME?  41 

very  careful,  you  needn't  tear  your  dress  very 
badly.  Then  there's  the  raft,  and  you  might 
play  base-ball  too.  I'll  teach  you. 

You   see  if  you  don't  have   a  nice  time.     I 
can't  think  of  anything  more  to  say. 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

GYPSY." 


CHAPTER  111. 

ONE    EVENING. 

O  it  was  settled,  and  Joy  came.  There 
was  no  especial  day  appointed  for  the 
journey.  Her  father  was  to  cjme  up 
with  her  as  soon  as  he  had  arranged  his 
affairs  so  that  he  could  do  so,  and  then  to  go 
directly  back  to  Boston  and  sail  at  once. 

Gypsy  found  plenty  to  do,  in  getting  ready 
for  her  cousin.  This  having  a  room-mate  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  was  by  no  means  an  unim 
portant  event  to  her.  Her  room  had  always 
been  her  own  especial  private  property.  Here 
in  a  quiet  nook  on  the  broad  window-sill,  she 
had  curled  herself  up  for  hours  with  her  new 

story-books  ;  here  she  had  locked  herself  in  to 
42 


ONE    EVENING.  43 

learn  her  lessons,  and  keep  her  doll's  dress 
making  out  of  Winnie's  way ;  here  she  had 
gone  away  alone  to  have  all  her  ' '  good  cries  ;  " 
here  she  sometimes  spent  a  part  of  her  Sabbath 
evenings,  with  her  most  earnest  and  sober 
thoughts. 

Here  was  the  mantel-shelf,  covered  with  her 
little  knick-knacks  that  no  one  was  ever  allowed 
to  touch  but  herself,  —  pictures  framed  in  pine- 
cones,  boxes  of  shell-work,  baskets  of  wafer- 
work,  cologne-bottles,  watch-cases,  ivy-shoots 
and  minerals,  on  which  the  dust  accumulated  at 
its  own  sweet  will,  and  the  characteristic  variety 
and  arrangement  whereof  none  ever  disputed 
with  her,  —  what  if  Joy  should  bring  a  trunk- 
ful  of  ornaments? 

There  in  the  wardrobe  were  her  treasures 
covering  six  shelves ;  her  kites  and  balls  of 
twine,  fish-lines  and  doll's  bonnets,  scraps  of 
gay  silk  and  jack-knives,  old  compositions  and 
portfolios,  colored  paper  and  dried  moss,  piecea 


44 

of  chalk  and  horse-chestnuts,  broken  jewelry 
and  marbles.  It  was  a  curious  collection. 
One  would  suppose  it  to  be  a  sort  of  copartner 
ship  between  the  property  of  a  boy  and  girl, 
in  which  the  boy  decidedly  predominated. 

Into  this  wardrobe  Gypsy  looked  regretfully. 
Three  of  those  shelves  —  those  precious  shelves 
must  be  Joy's  now.  And  what  should  be  done 
with  the  things  ? 

Then  there  were  the  bureau  drawers.  What 
sorcerer's  charms,  to  say  nothing  of  the  some 
what  unwilling  fingers  of  a  not  very  enthusiastic 
little  girl,  could  cram  the  contents  of  four  (and 
those  so  full  that  they  were  overflowing  through 
the  cracks,)  into  two? 

Moreover,  as  any  one  acquainted  with  certain 
chapters  in  Gypsy's  past  history  will  remember, 
her  premises  were  not  always  celebrated  for  the 
utmost  tidiness.  And  here  was  Joy,  used  to 
her  elegant  carpets  and  marble-covered  bureaus, 
and  gas-fixtures  and  Cochituate,  with  servants  to 


ONE   EVENING.  45 

pick  up  her  things  for  her  ever  since  she  was  a 
baby.  How  shocked  she  would  be  at  the  dust, 
and  the  ubiquitous  slippers,  and  the  slips  and 
shreds  on  the  carpet ;  and  how  should  she  have 
the  least  idea  what  it  was  to  have  to  do  things 
yourself? 

However,  Gypsy  put  a  brave  face  on  it,  and 
emptied  the  bureau  drawers,  and  squeezed  away 
the  treasures  into  three  shelves,  and  did  her 
best  to  make  the  room  look  pleasant  and  in 
viting  to  the  little  stranger.  In  fact,  before 
she  was  through  with  the  work,  she  became 
really  very  much  interested  in  it.  She  had  put 
a  clean  white  quilt  upon  the  bed,  and  looped  up 
the  curtain  with  a  handsome  crimson  ribbon, 
taken  from  the  stock  in  the  wardrobe.  She  had 
swept  and  dusted  every  corner  and  crevice  ;  she 
had  displayed  all  her  ornaments  to  the  best  ad 
vantage,  and  put  fresh  cologne  in  the  bottles. 
She  had  even  brought  from  some  sanctum  where 
it  was  folded  away  in  the  dark,  a  very  choice 


46  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

silk  flag  about  four  inches  long,  that  she  had 
made  when  the  war  began,  and  was  keeping 
very  tenderly  to  wear  when  Richmc  nd  was 
taken,  and  pinned  it  up  over  her  looking-glass. 

On  the  table  too,  stood  her  Parian  vase  filled 
with  golden  and  blood-red  maple  leaves,  and 
the  flaming  berries  of  the  burning-bush. 
Very  prettily  the  room  looked,  when  everything 
was  finished,  and  Gypsy  was  quite  proud  of  it. 

Joy  came  Thursday  night.  They  were  all 
in  the  parlor  when  the  coach  stopped,  and 
Gypsy  ran  out  to  meet  her. 

A  pale,  sickly,  tired-looking  child,  draped 
from  head  to  foot  in  black,  came  up  the  steps 
clinging  to  her  father's  hand,  and  fretting  over 
something  or  other  about  the  baggage. 

Gypsy  was  springing  forward  to  meet  her, 
but  stopped  short.  The  last  time  she  had  seen 
Joy,  she  was  in  gay  Stuart-plaid  silk  and 
corals.  She  had  forgotten  all  about  the  mourn 
ing.  How  thin  and  tall  it  made  Joy  look ! 


ONE    EVENING.  47 

Gypsy  remembered  herself  in  a  minute;  and 
threw  her  arms  warmly  around  Joy's  neck. 
But  Joy  did  not  return  the  embrace,  and  gave  her 
only  one  cold  kiss.  She  had  inferred  from 
Gypsy's  momentary  hesitation,  that  she  was  not 
glad  to  see  her. 

Gypsy  on  her  part,  thought  Joy  was  proud 
and  disagreeable.  Thus  the  two  girls  mis 
understood  each  other  at  the  very  beginning. 

"  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Gypsy. 

1 '  I  thought  we  never  should  get  here  !  "  said 
Joy,  petulantly.  "The  cars  were  so  dusty, 
and  your  coach  jolts  terribly.  I  shouldn't  think 
the  town  would  use  such  an  old  thing." 

Gypsy's  face  fell,  and  her  welcome  grew 
faint. 

Joy  had  but  little  to  say  at  supper.  She  sat 
by  her  father  and  ate  her  muffins  like  a  very 
hungry,  tired  child,  —  like  a  very  cross  child, 
Gypsy  thought.  Joy's  face  was  always  pale  and 
fretful ;  in  the  bright  lamp-light  now,  after  the 


48 

exhaustion  of  the  long  journey,  it  had  a 
pinched,  unpleasant  look. 

"  Hem,"  coughed  Tom,  over  his  tea-cup. 
Gypsy  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met.  That 
look  said  unutterable  things. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Mrs.  Breynton,  that 
supper  would  have  been  a  di'smal  affair.  But 
she  had  such  a  cosey,  comfortable  way  about 
her,  that  nobody  could  help  being  cosey  and 
comfortable,  if  they  tried  hard  for  it.  After  a 
while,  when  Mr.  Breynton  and  his  brother  had 
gone  away  into  the  library  for  a  talk  by  them 
selves,  and  Joy  began  to  feel  somewhat  rested, 
she  brightened  up  wonderfully,  and  became 
really  quite  entertaining  in  her  account  of  her 
journey.  She  thought  Vermont  looked  cold  and 
stupid,  however,  and  didn't  remember  having 
noticed  much  about  the  mountains,  for  which 
Gypsy  thought  she  should  never  forgive  her. 

But  there  was  at  least  one  thing  Gypsy  found 
out  that  evening  to  like  about  Joy.  She  loved 


ONE    EVENING.  49 

her  father  dearly.  One  could  not  help  noticing 
how  restless  she  was  while  he  was  out  of  the 
room,  and  how  she  watched  the  door  for  him  to 
come  back ;  how  when  he  did  come,  she  stole 
away  from  her  aunt  and  sat  down  by  him, 
slipping  her  hand  softly  into  his.  As  he  had 
been  all  her  life,  the  most  indulgent  and  patient 
of  fathers,  and  was  going  early  to-morrow 
morning  thousands  of  miles  away  from  her  into 
thousands  of  unknown  dangers,  it  was  no 
wonder. 

While  it  was  still  quite  early,  Joy  proposed 
going  to  bed.  She  was  tired,  and  besides,  she 
wanted  to  unpack  a  few  of  her  things.  So 
Gypsy  lighted  the  lamp  and  went  up  with 
ter. 

"  So  I  am  to  sleep  with  you,"  said  Joy,  as 
,tVey  opened  the  door,  in  by  no  means  the  hap 
piest  of  tones,  though  they  were  polite  enough. 

"Yes.  Mother  thought  it  was  better, — • 
sec,  isn't  my  room  pretty  ?  "  said  Gypsy,  eager- 


50  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

ly,  thinking  how  pleased  Joy  would  be  witi 
the  little  welcome  of  its  fresh  adornments. 

"Oh,  is  this  it?" 

Gypsy  stopped  short,  the  hot  color  rushing 
all  over  her  face. 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  like  yours.  We  can't 
afford  marble  bureaus  and  Brussels  carpets,  but 
I  thought  you'd  like  the  maple  leaves,  and  I 
brought  out  the  flag  on  purpose  because  you 
were  coming." 

"Flag?  where?  Oh  yes,  I  have  one  ten 
times  as  big  as  that  at  home,"  said  Joy,  and 
then  she  too  stopped  short,  for  she  saw  the  ex 
pression  of  Gypsy's  face.  Astonished  and 
puzzled,  wondering  what  she  had  done,  Joy 
turned  away  to  unpack,  when  her  eye  fell  on 
the  vase  with  its  gorgeous  leaves  and  berries, 
and  she  cried  out  in  real  delight,  — 

"  O  — oh,  how  pretty  I  Why,  we  don't  have 
any  tiling  like  this  in  Boston." 

But  Gypsy  was  only  half  comforted. 


ONE    EVENING.  51 

Joy  unlocked  her  trunk  then,  and  for  a  few 
tiinutes  they  chatted  merrily  over  the  unpack 
ing.     Where  is  the  girl  that  doesn't  like  to  look 
at  pretty  clothes?  and  where  is  the   girl  that 
doesn't  like  to  show  them  if  they  happen  to  be 
her  own  ?      Joy's  linen  was  all  of  the  prettiest 
pattern,  with  wonderful  trimmings  and  embroid 
eries   such    as   Gypsy  had   seldom    seen;    her 
collars   and    undersleeves    were    of    the    latest 
fashion,  and  fluted  with  choice  laces ;  her  tiny 
slippers  were  tufted  with  velvet  bows,  and  of 
her  nets  and  hair-ribbons,  there  was    no  end. 
Gypsy  looked  on  without  a  single  pang  of  envy, 
contrasting    them    with    her    own    plain,    neat 
things   of   course,    but    glad   in    Gypsy's    own 
generous  fashion,  that  Joy  had  them. 

'  *  I  had  pretty  enough  things  when  you  were 
in  Boston,"  said  Joy,  unfolding  her  heavy  black 
dresses  with  their  plain  folds  of  bombazine  and 
crape.  "Now  I  can't  wear  anything  but  this 
ugly  black.  Then  there  are  all  my  corals  and 


52  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

malachites  just  good  for  nothing.  Madame  St. 
Denis  —  she's  the  dressmaker  —  said  I  couldn't 
wear  a  single  thing  but  jet,  and  jet  makes  me 
look  dreadfully  brown." 

Gypsy  hung  up  the  dress  that  was  in  her 
hand,  and  walked  over  to  the  window.  She 
felt  very  much  as  if  somebody  had  been  drawing 
a  file  across  her  front  teeth. 

She  could  not  have  explained  what  was  the 
matter.  Somehow  she  seemed  to  see  a  quick 
picture  of  her  own  mother  dying  and  dead,  and 
herself  in  the  sad,  dark  dresses.  And  how 
Joy  could  speak  so  —  how  she  could  ! 

"Oh  —  only  two  bureau  drawers  !  Why 
didn't  you  give  me  the  two  upper  ones  ?  "  said 
Joy ,  presently,  when  she  was  ready  to  put  away 
her  collars  and  boxes. 

6 'Because  my  things  were  in  there,"  said 
Gypsy. 

"  But  your  things  were  in  the  lower  ones  just 
as  much." 


ONE   EVENING.  55 

"  I  like  the  upper  drawers  best,"  said  Gypsy, 
shortly. 

66  So  do  I,"  retorted  Joy. 

The  hot  color  rushed  over  Gypsy's  face  for 
the  second  time,  but  now  it  was  a  somewhat 
angry  color. 

* '  It  wasn't  very  pleasant  to  have  to  give  up 
any,  and  there  are  all  those  wardrobe  shelves  I 
had  to  take  my  things  off  from  too,  and  I  don't 
think  you've  any  right  to  make  a  fuss." 

"  That's  polite!"  said  Joy,  with  a  laugh. 
Gypsy  knew  it  wasn't,  but  for  that  very  reason 
she  wouldn't  say  so. 

One  more  subject  of  dispute  came  up  almost 
before  this  was  forgotten.  When  they  were  all 
ready  to  go  to  bed,  Joy  wanted  the  front  side. 

44  But   that's  where   I   always   sleep,"    said 

Gypsy. 

"  There  isn't  any  air  over  the  back  side,  and 
I  can't  breathe,"  said  Joy. 
"  Neither  can  I,"  said  Gypsy. 


54  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  I  never  can  get  to  sleep  if  I  don't  have  the 
place  I'm  used  to,"  said  Joy. 

"  You  can  just  as  well  as  I  can,"  said  Gypsy. 
«  Besides,  it's  my  bed." 

This  last  argument  appeared  to  be  unanswer 
able,  and  Gypsy  had  it  her  way. 

She  thought  it  over  before  she  went  to  sleep, 
which  was  not  very  soon  ;  for  Joy  was  restless, 
and  tossed  on  her  pillow,  and  talked  in  her 
dreams.  Of  course  the  front  side  and  the  upper 
drawers  belonged  to  her,  —  yes,  of  course.  She 
had  only  taken  her  rights.  She  would  be 
obliged  to  anybody  to  show  her  where  she  was 
to  blame. 

Joy  went  to  sleep  without  any  thoughts,  and 
therein  lay  just  the  difference. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CHESTNUTS. 

OMETHING  woke  Gypsy  very  early  the 
next  morning.     She  started  up,  and  saw 
Joy  standing  by  the  bed,  in  the  faint, 
gray   light,   all   dressed,    and    shivering 
with  the  cold. 

"  Well,  I  never  !  "  said  Gypsy. 
"  What's  the  matter?" 

"  What  on  earth  have  you  got  your  dress  on 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  for  ?  " 
"  It  isn't  night ;  it's  morning." 
"  Morning  !  it  isn't  any  such  a  thing." 
"'Tis,  too.     I  heard  the  clock   strike  five 
ever  so  long  ago." 

Gypsy  had  fallen  back  on  the  pillow,  almost 

(55) 


56 

asleep  again.     She  roused  herself  with  a  little 
jump. 

"  See  here  /" 

"  Ow !  how  you  frightened  me,"  said  Joy, 
with  another  jump. 

"Did  I?  Oh,  well"  —  silence.  "I  don't 
see  "  —  another  silence  —  '  *  what  you  wear  my 
rubber  — rubber-boots  for." 

"Your  rubber-boots!  Gypsy  Breynton, 
you're  sound  asleep." 

"Asleep!"  said  Gypsy,  sitting  up  with  a 
jerk,  and  rubbing  both  fists  into  her  eyes,  "  I'm 
just  as  wide  awake  as  you  are.  Oh,  why, 
you're  dressed !  " 

6 1  Just  found  that  out !  "  Joy  broke  into  a 
laugh,  and  Gypsy,  now  quite  awake,  joined  in 
it  merrily.  For  the  first  time  a  •  vague  notion 
came  to  her  that  she  was  rather  glad  Joy  came. 
It  might  be  some  fun,  after  all,  to  have  some 
body  round  all  the  time  to  —  in  that  untrans 
latable  girls'  phrase —  "  carry  on  with." 


CHESTNUTS.  57 

"But  I  don't  see  what's  up,"  said  Gypsy, 
winking  and  blinking  like  an  owl,  to  keep  her 
eyes  open. 

11  Why,  I  was  afraid  father'd  get  off  before  I 
was  awake,  so  I  was  determined  he  shouldn't. 
I  guess  I  kept  waking  up  pretty  much  all  night 
to  see  if  it  wasn't  time." 

"  I  wish  he  didn't  have  to  go,"  said  Gypsy. 
She  felt  sorry  for  Joy  just  then,  seeing  this  best 
side  of  her  that  she  liked.  For  about  a  minute 
she  wished  she  had  let  her  have  the  upper 
drawer. 

Joy's  father  started  by  a  very  early  train,  and 
it  was  still  hardly  light  when  he  sat  down  to  his 
hurried  breakfast,  with  Joy  close  by  him,  that 
pale,  pinched  look  on  her  face,  and  so  utterly 
silent  that  Gypsy  was  astonished.  She  would 
have  thought  she  cared  nothing  about  her  fa 
ther's  going,  if  she  had  not  seen  her  standing 
in  the  gray  light  up-stairs. 

"Joyce,  my  child,  you  haven't  eaten  a 
mouthful,"  said  her  father. 


58  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  I  can't." 

"  Come,  dear,  do,  just  a  little,  to  please 
father." 

Joy  put  a  spoonful  of  tea  to  her  lips,  and  put 
it  down.  Presently  there  was  a  great  rumbling 
of  wheels  outside,  and  the  coachman  rang  the 
door-bell. 

"  Well,  Joy." 

Joy  stood  up,  but  did  not  speak.  Her 
father,  holding  her  close  in  his  arms,  drew  her 
out  with  him  into  the  entry.  Mrs.  Breynton 
turned  away  ;  so  did  Gypsy  and  the  rest.  In  a 
minute  they  heard  Joy  go  into  the  parlor  and 
shut  the  door,  and  then  her  father  called  out  to 
them  with  his  cheerful  good-byes,  and  then  he 
was  in  the  coach,  and  the  door  was  shut. 

Gypsy  stole  into  the  parlor.  Joy  was  stand 
ing  there  alone  by  the  window. 

' « "Why  don't  you  cry  ?  "  said  Gypsy  ;  "I 
would." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Joy,  moving  away. 


CHESTNUTS.  59 

Her  sorrow  at  parting  with  her  father  made  her 
fretful  that  morning.  This  was  Joy's  way.  She 
had  inherited  her  mother's  fashion  of  taking 
trouble.  Gypsy  did  not  understand  it,  and  her 
sympathy  cooled  a  little.  Still  she  really 
wanted  to  do  something  to  make  her  happy,  and 
so  she  set  about  it  in  the  only  ways  she  knew. 

"  See  here,  Joy,  she  called,  merrily,  after 
breakfast,  "  let's  come  out  and  have  a  good 
time.  I  have  lots  and  lots  to  show  you  out  in 
the  barn  and  round.  Then  there  is  all  York- 
bury  besides,  and  the  mountains.  Which'll  you 
do  first,  see  the  chickens  or  walk  out  on  the 
ridge-pole  ?  " 

6 'On  the  what!'9 

4  '  On  the  ridge-pole ;  that's  the  top  of  the 
roof,  you  know,  over  the  kitchen.  Tom  and  I 
go  out  there  ever  so  much." 

"  Oh,  I'd  rather  see  the  chickens.  I  should 
think  you'd  kill  you,  walking  on  roofs.  Wait 
till  I  get  my  gloves." 


60  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"Oh,  you  don't  want  gloves  in  YorJcbury" 
said  Gypsy,  with  a  very  superior  air.  "  That's 
nothing  but  a  Boston  fashion.  Slip  on  your 
hat  and  sack  in  a  jiff,  and  come  along." 

"  I  shall  tan  my  hands,"  said  Joy,  reluc 
tantly,  as  they  went  out.  "Besides,  I  don't 
know  what  a  jiff  is." 

"  A  jiff  is,  —  why,  it's  short  for  jiffy,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  But  what's  a  jiffy?  "  persisted  Joy. 

"Couldn't  tell  you,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a 
bubbling  laugh  ;  "I  guess  it's  something  that's 
in  a  terrible  hurry.  Tom  says  it  ever  so 
much." 

* '  I  shouldn't  think  your  mother  would  let 
you  use  boys'  talk,"  said  Joy.  Gypsy  some 
times  stood  in  need  of  some  such  hint  as  this, 
but  she  did  not  relish  it  from  Joy.  By  way  of 
reply  she  climbed  up  the  post  of  the  clothes 
line. 

Joy  thought  the  chickens  were  pretty,  but 


CHESTNUTS.  61 

they  had  such  long  legs,  and  such  a  silly  way 
of  squealing  when  you  took  them  up,  as  if  you 
were  going  to  murder  them.  Besides  she  was 
afraid  she  should  step  on  them.  So  they  went 
into  the  barn,  and  Gypsy  exhibited  Billy  and 
Bess  and  Clover  with  the  talent  of  a  Barnuni 
and  the  pride  of  a  queen.  Billy  was  the  old 
horse  who  had  pulled  the  family  to  church 
through  the  sand  every  Sunday  since  the  chil 
dren  were  babies,  and  Bess  and  Clover  were 
white-starred,  gentle-eyed  cows,  who  let  Gypsy 
pull  their  horns  and  tickle  them  with  hay,  and 
make  pencil- marks  on  their  white  foreheads  to 
her  heart's  content,  and  looked  at  Joy's  strange 
lace  with  great  musing  beautiful  brown  eyes. 
But  Joy  was  afraid  they  would  hook  her,  and 
she  didn't  like  to  be  in  a  barn. 

"  What !  not  to  tumble  on  the  hay  !  "  cried 
Gypsy,  half  way  up  the  ladder  into  the  loft; 
''just  see  what  a  quantity  there  is  of  it.  Did 
you  ever  know  such  a  quantity  ?  Father  lets 


62  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

me  jump  on  it  'cause  I  dont  hurt  the  hay  —  very 
much." 

No,  Joy  couldn't  possibly  climb  up  the  ladder. 
Well,  Gypsy  would  help  her  then.  By  a  little 
manoeuvring,  she  persuaded  Joy  to  step  up 
three  rounds,  and  she  herself  stood  behind  her 
and  began  to  walk  up.  Joy  screamed  and 
stood  still. 

' '  Go  ahead  ;  you  can't  stop  now.  I'll  keep 
hold  of  you,"  said  Gypsy,  choking  with  laugh 
ter,  and  walking  on.  There  was  nothing  for 
Joy  to  do  but  climb,  unless  she  chose  to  be 
walked  over,  so  up  they  went,  she  screaming 
and  Gypsy  pushing  all  the  way. 

' '  Now  all  you  have  to  do  is  just  to  get  up  on 
the  beams  and  jump  off,"  said  Gypsy,  up  there, 
and  peering  down  from  among  the  cobwebs,  and 
flying  through  the  air,  almost  before  the  words 
were  off  from  her  lips.  But  Joy  wouldn't  hear 
of  getting  into  such  a  dusty  place.  She  took 
two  or  three  dainty  little  rolls  on  the  hay,  but 


CHESTNUTS.  63 

the  dried  clover  got  into  her  hair  and  mouth  and 
eyes,  and  she  was  perfectly  sure  there  was  a 
spider  down  her  neck ;  so  Gypsy  was  glad  at 
last  to  get  her  safely  down  the  ladder  and  out 
doors. 

After  that  they  tried  the  raft.  Gypsy's  raft 
was  on  a  swamp  below  the  orchard,  and  it  was 
one  of  her  favorite  amusements  to  push  herself 
about  over  the  shallow  water.  But  Joy  was 
afraid  of  wetting  her  feet,  or  getting  drowned, 
or  something,  —  she  didn't  exactly  know  what, 
so  they  gave  that  up. 

Then  Gypsy  proposed  a  game  of  marbles  on 
the  garden  path.  She  played  a  great  deal  with 
Tom,  and  played  well.  But  Joy  was  shocked 
at  the  idea.  That  was  a  boy's  play  ! 

"  What  will  you  do,  then?"  said  Gypsy,  a 
little  crossly.  Joy  replied  in  the  tone  of  a 
martyr,  that  she  was  sure  she  did  not  know. 
Gypsy  coughed,  and  walked  up  and  down  on 
the  garden  fence  in  significant  silence. 


64 

Joy  was  not  to  go  to  school  till  Monday, 
Meantime  she  amused  herself  at  home  with  her 
aunt,  and  Gypsy  went  as  usual  without  her. 

Saturday  afternoon  was  the  perfect  pattern 
of  an  autumn  afternoon.  A  creamy  hazo 
softened  the  sharp  outline  of  the  mountains, 
and  lay  cloudlike  on  the  fields.  The  sunlight 
fell  through  it  like  sifted  gold ;  the  sky  hung 
motionless  and  blue,  — that  glowless,  deepening 
blue  that  always  made  Gypsy  feel,  she  said, 
"  as  if  she  must  drink  it  right  up,"  —  and  away 
over  miles  of  field  and  mountain  slope  the 
maples  crimsoned  and  flamed. 

Gypsy  came  home  at  noon  with  her  hat  hang 
ing  down  her  neck,  her  cheeks  on  fire,  and 
panting  like  the  old  lady  who  died  for  want  of 
breath :  rushing  up  the  steps,  tearing  open  the 
door,  and  slamming  into  the  parlor. 

* '  Look  here  !  —  everybody  —  where  are  you  ? 
What  do  you  think  ?  Joy  !  Mother  !  There's 
going  to  be  a  great  chestnutting." 


CHESTNUTS.  65 

"A  what?"  asked  Joy,  dropping  her  em 
broidery. 

"  A  chestnutting,  up  at  Mr.  Jonathan  Jones's 
trees,  this  afternoon  at  two  o'clock.  Did  you 
ever  hear  anything  so  perfectly  mag ?"  —  mag 
being  "  Gypsy"  for  magnificent. 

"Who  are  to  make  the  party?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"  Oh,  I  and  Sarah  Kowe  and  Delia  Guest 
an(]  —  and  Sarah  Kowe  and  I,"  said  Gypsy, 
talking  very*  fast. 

"  And  Joy,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  gently. 

"  Joy,  of  course.  That's  what  I  came  in  to 
say." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  to  go  if  you  don't  want 
me,"  said  Joy,  with  a  slighted  look. 

"  But  I  do  want  you.     Who  said  I  didn't?  " 

"Well,"  said  Joy,  somewhat  mollified,  "I'll 
go  if  there  aren't  any  spiders." 

The  two  girls  equipped  themselves  with  tir 
pails,  thick  boots,  and  a  lunch-basket,  and 

5 


66 

started  off  in  high  spirits  at  precisely  half  past 
one.  Joy  had  a  remarkably  vague  idea  of 
what  she  was  going  to  do,  but  she  felt  unusually 
good-natured,  as  who  could  help  feeling,  with 
guch  a  sunlight  as  that,  and  such  distant  glories 
of  the  maple-trees,  and  such  shadows  melting 
on  the  mountains  ? 

"I  want  to  go  chestnotting,  too-o-o ! " 
called  Winnie,  disconsolate,  in  the  doorway. 

"No,  Winnie,  you  couldn't,  possibly,"  said 
Gypsy,  pleasantly,  sorry  to  disappoint  him  ;  but 
she  was  quite  too  well  acquainted  with  Winnie 
to  undertake  a  nutting  party  in  his  company. 

"Oh,  yes,  do  let's  take  him;  he's  so  cun 
ning,"  said  Joy.  Joy  was  totally  unused  to 
children,  having  never  had  brothers  and  sisters 
of  her  own,  and  since  she  had  been  there, 
Winnie  had  not  happened  to  develop  in  any  of 
his  characteristic  methods.  Moreover,  he  had 
speedily  discovered  that  Joy  laughed  at  every 
thing  he  said ;  even  his  most  ordinary  efforts  in 


CHESTNUTS.  67 

the  line  of  wit ;  and  that  she  gave  him  lumps 
of  sugar  when  she  thought  of  it ;  and  therefore 
he  had  been  on  his  best  behavior  whenever  she 
was  about. 

"He's  so  terribly  cunning,"  repeated  Joy, 
"  I  guess  he  won't  do  any  hurt." 

"1  won't  do  any  hurt,"  put  in  Winnie; 
"  I'm  real  cunnin',  Gypsy." 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like,  of  course,"  said 
Gypsy.  "  I  know  he  will  make  trouble  and 
spoil  all  the  party,  and  the  girls  would  scold  me 
'cause  I  brought  him.  I've  tried  it  times 
enough.  If  you're  a  mind  to  take  care  of  him, 
I  suppose  you  can,  but  you  see  if  you  don't 
repent  your  bargain." 

Gypsy  was  perfectly  right ;  she  was  not  apt 
to  be  selfish  in  her  treatment  of  Winnie.  Such 
a  tramp  as  this  was  not  at  all  suited  to  his  capac 
ities  of  feet  or  temper,  and  if  his  mother  had 
been  there  she  would  have  managed  to  make 
him  happy  in  staying  at  home.  But  Winnie 


t>8  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

had  received  quite  too  much  encouragement ; 
he  had  no  thought  of  giving  up  his  bargain 
now. 

"  Gypsy  Breynton,  you  just  needn't  talk. 
I'm  p-oin'  chestnotting.  I'm  five  years  old. 
I'm  goin'  with  cousin  Joy,  and  I'll  eat  just  as 
many  chestnots  as  you  or  anybody  else,  now  !  " 

Gypsy  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  that, 
and  the  three  started  off  together. 

They  met  Sarah  Kowe  and  Delia  on  the  way. 
and  Gypsy  introduced  them. 

"  This  is  my  cousin  Joy,  and  this  is  Sarah. 
That  one  in  the  shaker  bonnet  is  Delia  Guest. 
Oh,  I  forgot.  Joy's  last  name  is  Breynton, 
and  Sarah  is  Sarah  Rowe." 

Joy  bowed  in  her  prim,  cityish  way,  and 
Sarah  and  Delia  were  so  much  astonished 
thereat  that  they  forgot  to  bow  at  all,  and  Delia 
stared  rudely  at  her  black  dress.  There  was  an 
awkward  silence. 

4  *  Why  don't   you  talk,   somebody  ?  "  broke 


CHESTNUTS.  6 

out  Gypsy,  getting  desperate.  "  Anybody'd 
think  we  were  three  mummies  in  a  museum." 

"  I  don't  think  you're  very  perlite,"  put  in 
Winnie,  with  a  virtuous  frown ;  "if  you  don't 
let  me  be  a  dummy,  too,  I'll  tell  mother,  and 
that  would  make  four." 

This  broke  the  ice,  and  Sarah  and  Delia 
began  to  talk  very  fast  about  Monday's  grammar 
lesson,  and  Miss  Cardrew,  and  how  Agnes 
Gaylord  put  a  green  snake  in  Phoebe  Hunt's 
lunch-basket,  and  had  to  stay  after  school  for  it, 
and  how  it  was  confidently  reported  in  mysteri 
ous  whispers,  at  recess,  that  George  Castles  told 
Mr.  Guernsey  he  was  a  regular  old  fogy*  and 
Mr.  Guernsey  had  sent  home  a  letter  to  his 
father,  —  not  Mr.  Guernsey's  father,  but 
George's  ;  he  had  now,  true's  you  live. 

Now  to  Joy,  of  course,  none  of  this  was 
very  interesting,  for  she  had  not  been  into  the 
schoolroom  yet,  and  didn't  know  George  Castles 
and  Agnes  Gaylord  from  Adam ;  and  somehow 


70  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

or  other  it  never  occurred  to  Gypsy  to  intro 
duce  some  subject  in  which  they  could  all  take 
part ;  and  so  somehow  it  came  about  that  Joy 
fell  behind  with  Winnie,  and  the  three  girla 
went  on  together  all  the  way  to  Mr.  Jones's 
grove. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid?"  called  Gypsy,  turning 
around.  "I'm  having  a  real  nice  time." 

"  Ye — es,"  said  Joy,  dolefully;  "I  guess  I 
shall  like  it  better  when  we  get  to  the  chest 
nuts." 

Nothing  particular  happened  on  the  way, 
except  that  when  they  were  crossing  Mr.  Jon 
athan's  ploughed  field,  Winnie  stuck  in  the 
mud  tight,  and  when  he  was  pulled  out  he  left 
his  shoes  behind  him ;  that  he  repeated  this 
pleasing  little  incident  six  consecutive  times 
within  five  minutes,  varying  it  by  lifting  up  his 
voice  to  weep,  in  Winnie's  own  accomplished 
style ;  and  that  Joy  ended  by  carrying  him  in 
her  arms  the  whole  way. 


CHESTNUTS.  71 

Be  it  here  recorded  that  Joy's  ideal  of  "  cher 
ubic  childhood,"  Winnie  standing  as  lepreserita- 
tive  cherub,  underwent  then  and  there  several 
modifications. 

' «  Here  we  are  !  "  cried  Gypsy  at  last,  clear 
ing  a  low  fence  with  a  bound.  "  Just  see  the 
leaves  and  the  sky.  Isn't  it  just  —  oh  !  " 

It  was,  indeed  "just,"  and  there  it  stopped; 
there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  more  words  to  say 
about  it.  The  chestnut- trees  were  clustered  on 
a  small,  rocky  knoll,  their  golden-brown  leaves 
fluttering  in  the  sunlight,  their  great,  rich, 
bursting  green  burs  bending  down  the  boughs, 
and  dropping  to  the  ground.  Around  them  and 
among  them  a  belt  of  maples  stood  up  like 
blazing  torches  sharp  against  the  sky,  — yellow, 
scarlet,  russet,  maroon,  and  crimson  veined 
with  blood,  all  netted  and  laced  together,  and 
floating  down  upon  the  wind  like  shattered  jew 
els.  Beyond,  the  purple  mountains,  and  the 
creamy  haze,  and  the  silent  sky. 


72 

It  was  a  sight  to  make  younger  and  older 
than  these  four  girls,  stand  still  with  deepening 
eyes.  For  about  a  half-minute  nobody  spoke, 
and  I  venture  to  say  the  four  different  kinds  of 
thoughts  they  had  just  then,  would  make  a 
pretty  bit  of  a  poem. 

Whatever  they  were,  a  fearfully  unromantic 
and  utterly  indescribable  howl  from  Winnie, 
put  an  unceremonious  end  to  them. 

' '  O-oh  !  ugh  !  ah  !  Gypsy  !  Joy  !  I've  got 
catched  onto  my  buttons.  My  head's  tippin* 
over  the  wrong  way.  Boo-hoo-hoo  !  Gypsy  !  " 

The  girls  turned,  and  stood  transfixed,  and 
screamed  till  they  lost  their  breath,  and  laughed 
till  they  cried. 

Winnie,  not  being  of  a  sentimental  turn  of 
mind,  had  regarded  unmoved  the  flaming  glories 
of  the  maple-leaves,  and  being  influenced  by 
the  more  earthly  attractions  of  the  chestnuts, 
had  conceived  the  idea  of  seizing  advantage  of 
»be  girls'  unpractical  rapture  to  be  tike  first  on 


WINNIE  CAUGHT  IN  THE  FENCR.     PAGE  73 


CHESTNUTS.  73 

the  field,  and  take  entire  and  lawful  possession 
thereof.  Therefore  had  he  made  all  manner  of 
haste  to  crawl  through  the  fence,  and  there  had 
he  stuck  fast  between  two  bars,  balanced  Ifke  a 
see-saw,  his  head  going  up  and  his  feet  going 
down,  his  feet  going  up  and  his  head  going 
down. 

Gypsy  pulled  him  out  as  well  as  she  could 
between  her  spasms  of  laughter. 

"  I  don't  see  anythin'  to  laugh  at,"  said 
Winnie,  severely.  "  If  you  don't  stop  laughin' 
I'll  go  way  off  into  the  woods  and  be  a  Injun 
and  never  come  home  any  more,  and  build  me  a 
house  with  a  chimney  to  it,  'n  have  baked  beans 
for  supper  'n  lots  of  chestnots,  and  a  gun  and  a 
pistol,  and  I  won't  give  you  any  !  Goin'  to  stop 
laughin'?" 

It  did  not  take  long  to  pick  up  the  nuts  that 
the  wind  and  the  frost  had  already  strewn  upon 
the  ground,  and  everybody  enjoyed  it  but  Joy. 
She  pricked  her  unaccustomed  fingers  on  the 


74 

sharp  burs,  and  didn't  like  the  nuts  when  she 
had  tasted  of  them. 

"  They're  not  the  kind  of  chestnuts  we  have 
in  Boston,"  she  said ;  "  ours  are  soft  like  pota- 
tatoes." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  she  thought  they  grew 
boiled!"  and  there  was  a  great  laugh.  Joy 
colored,  and  did  not  relish  it  very  much.  Gyp 
sy  was  too  busy  pulling  off  her  burs  to  notice 
this.  Presently  the  ground  was  quite  cleared. 

"  Now  we  must  climb,"  said  Gypsy.  Gypsy 
was  always  the  leader  in  their  plays  ;  always 
made  all  their  plans.  Sarah  Rowe  was  her 
particular  friend,  and  thought  everything  Gypsy 
did  about  right,  and  seldom  opposed  her.  Delia 
never  opposed  anybody. 

'''Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  climb,"  said  Joy, 
shrinking  and  shocked. 

"But  I'll  show  you.  This  isn't  anything; 
these  branches  are  just  as  low  as  they  can  be. 
Here,  I'll  go  first  and  help  you,  and  Sarah  can 
come  next." 


CHESTNUTS.  75 

So  up  went  Gypsy,  nimble  as  a  squirrel,  over 
the  low -banging  bougbs  tbat  swayed  with  her 
weight. 

"  Come,  Joy  !  I  can't  wait." 

Joy  trembled  and  screamed  and  came.  She 
crawled  a  little  ways  up  the  lowest  of  the 
branches,  and  stopped,  frightened  by  the 
motion. 

"  Catch  hold  of  the  upper  bough  and  stand 
up.  Then  you  can  walk  it,"  called  Gypsy,  half 
out  of  sight  now  among  the  thick  leaves. 

Joy  did  as  she  was  told,  — her  feet  slipped, 
the  lower  branch  swung  away  from  under  her, 
and  there  she  hung  by  both  hands  in  mid- air. 
She  was  not  more  than  four  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  could  have  jumped  down  without 
the  slightest  difficulty,  but  that  she  was  alto 
gether  too  frightened  to  do.  So  she  swun^ 
back  and  forth  like  a  lantern,  screaming  as  loud 
as  she  could  scream. 

Gypsy  was  peculiarly  sensitive  to   anything 


76  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

funny,  and  she  quite  forgot  that  Joy  was 
really  frightened ;  indeed,  used  as  she  was  to 
the  science  of  tree-climbing  all  her  life,  that  a 
girl  could  hang  within  four  feet  of  the  ground, 
and  not  know  enough  to  jump,  seemed  to  her 
perfectly  incomprehensible. 

"Jump,  Joy,  jump!"  she  called,  between 
her  shouts  of  laughter. 

"  No,  no,  don't,  you  might  break  your  arm," 
cried  Delia  Guest,  who  hadn't  the  slightest 
scruple  about  telling  a  falsehood  if  she  were 
going  to  have  something  to  laugh  at  by  the 
means.  Poor  Joy  was  between  Scylla  and 
Chary bdis.  (If  you  don't  know  what  that 
means,  go  and  ask  your  big  brothers ;  make 
them  leave  their  chess  and  their  newspapers  on 
the  spot,  and  read  you  what  Mr.  Virgil  has  to 
say  about  it.)  If  she  hung  on,  she  would 
wrench  her  arms ;  if  she  jumped,  she  should 
break  them.  She  hung  screaming,  as  long  as 
ehe  could,  and  dropped  when  she  could  hang  no 


CHESTNUTS.  77 

longer,  looking  about  in  an  astonishment  that 
was  irresistibly  funny,  at  finding  herself  alive 
And  unhurt  on  the  soft  moss. 

The  girls  were  still  laughing  too  hard  to  talk. 
Joy  stood  up  with  a  very  red  face,  and  began  to 
walk  slowly  away  without  a  word. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  called  Gypsy  from 
the  branches. 

"  Home,"  said  Joy. 

"Oh,  don't;  come,  we  wont  laugh  any 
more.  Come  back,  and  you  needn't  climb. 
You  can  stay  underneath  and  pick  up  while  we 
throw  down." 

"No;  I've  had  enough  of  it.  I  don't  like 
chestnutting,  and  I  don't  like  to  be  laughed  at, 
either.  I  shant  stay  any  longer." 

"  I'm  real  sorry,"  said  Gypsy.  "  I  couldn't 
help  laughing  at  you,  you  did  look  so  terribly 
funny.  Oh,  dear,  you  ought  to  have  seen 
yourself!  I  wish  you  wouldn't  go.  If  you 
do,  you  can  find  the  way  alone,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Joy,  doubtfully. 


78  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Well,  you'd  better  take  Winnie ;  you  know 
you  brought  him,  and  I  can't  keep  him  here. 
It  would  spoil  everything.  Why,  where  is  the 
child?" 

He  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

* «  Winnie  !     Win— nie  !  " 

There  was  a  great  splash  somewhere,  and  a 
curious  bubbling  sound,  but  where  it  came  from 
nobody  could  tell.  All  at  once  Delia  broke 
into  something  between  a  laugh  and  a  scream. 

' '  O — oh,  I  see  !  Look  there  —  down  in  that 
ditch  beyond  the  elder-bushes  —  quick  !  " 

Rising  up  into  the  air  out  of  the  muddy 
ground,  without  any  visible  support  whatever, 
were  a  pair  of  feet,  — Winnie's  feet,  unmistak 
ably,  because  of  their  copper  toes  and  tagless 
shoe-strings,  —  and  kicking  frantically  back  and 
forth.  "  Only  that  and  nothing  more." 

"  Why,  where's  the  —  rest  of  him?"  said 
Joy,  blankly.  At  this  instant  Gypsy  darted 
past  her  with  a  sudden  movement,  flew  down 


CHESTNUTS.  79 

the  knoll,  and  began  to  pull  at  the  mysterious 
feet  as  if  for  dear  life. 

"Why,  what  is  she  doing?"  cried  all  the 
girls  in  a  breath.  As  they  spoke,  up  came 
Winnie  entire  into  the  air,  head  down,  dripping, 
drenched,  black  with  mud,  gasping,  nearly 
drowned. 

Gypsy  shook  him  and  pounded  him  on  the 
back  till  his  breath  came,  and  when  she  found 
there  was  no  harm  done,  she  set  him  down  on  a 
stone,  wiped  the  mud  off  from  his  face,  and 
threw  herself  down  on  the  grass  as  if  she 
couldn't  stand  up  another  minute. 

4 '  Crying  ?  Why,  no  ;  she's  laughing.  Did 
you  ever  ?  " 

And  down  ran  the  girls  to  see  what  was  thf 
matter.  At  the  foot  of  the  knoll  was  a  ditcl 
of  black  mud.  In  the  middle  of  this  ditch  wsu 
a  round  hole  two  feet  deep,  which  had  been  dug 
at  some  time  to  collect  water  for  the  cattle  pas 
turing  in  the  field  to  drink.  Into  this  hole, 


80  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Winnie,  in  the  course  of  some  scientific  inves 
tigations  as  to  the  depth  of  the  water,  had 
fallen,  unfortunately,  the  wrong  end  foremost, 
and  there  he  certainly  would  have  drowned,  if 
Gypsy  had  not  seen  him  just  when  she  did. 

But  he  was  not  drowned ;  on  the  contrary, 
except  for  the  mud,  "as  good  as  new;"  and 
what  might  have  been  a  tragedy,  and  a  very  sad 
one,  had  become  as  Gypsy  said,  "  too  funny 
for  anything."  Winnie,  however,  "  didn't  see 
it,"  and  began  to  cry  lustily  to  go  home. 

"It's  fortunate  you  were  just  going,"  said 
Gypsy.  "I'll  just  fill  my  pail,  and  then  I'll 
come  along  and  very  likely  overtake  you." 

Probably  Joy  didn't  fancy  this  arrangement 
any  too  well,  but  she  remembered  that  it  was 
her  own  plan  to  take  the  child ;  therefore  she 
said  nothing,  and  she  and  Winnie  started  off 
forlornly  enough. 

About  five  o'clock  Gypsy  walked  slowly  up 
the  yard,  with  her  pail  full  of  nuts,  her  hat  in 


CHESTNUTS.  81 

her  hand,  and  a  gay  wreath  of  maple-leaves  on 
her  head.  With  her  bright  cheeks  and  twink 
ling  eyes,  and  the  broad  leaves  casting  their 
gorgeous  shadows  of  crimson  and  gold  upon  her 
forehead,  she  made  a  pretty  picture,  —  almost 
too  pretty  to  scold. 

Tom  met  her  at  the  door.  Tom  was  very 
proud  of  Gypsy,  and  you  could  see  in  his  eyes 
just  then,  what  he  thought  of  her. 

"  What  a  little  "  —  he  began,  all  ready  for  a 
frolic,  and  stopped,  and  grew  suddenly  grave. 

' '  Where  are  Joy  and  Winnie  ?  " 

« « Haven't  they  come  ?  " 

"No." 


CHAPTER  Vr 

GYPSY  MAKES   A   DISCOVERY. 

>YPSY  turned  very  pale. 

' «  Where  are  they  ?  "  persisted  Tom. 
And  just   then  her   mother  came   out 
from  the  parlor. 
"  Why,  Gypsy,  where  are  the  children?" 
"  I'm  afraid  Joy  didn't  know  the  way,"  said 
Gypsy,  slowly. 

*  <  Did  you  let  her  come  home  alone  ?  " 
"  Yes'm.     She  was   tired   of  the  chestnuts, 
and  Winnie  fell  into  the  ditch.     Oh,  mother  !  " 
Mrs.  Breynton  did  not   say  one  word.     She 
began  to  put  on  her  things  very  fast,  and  Tom 
hurried  up  to  the  store  for  his  father. 
82 


GYPSY   MAKES    A    DISCOVERY.  83 

They  hunted  everywhere,  through  the  fields 
and  in  the  village  ;  they  inquired  of  every  shop 
keeper  and  every  passer,  but  no  one  had  zeen  a 
girl  in  black,  with  a  little  boy.  There  were 
plenty  of  girls  and  an  abundance  of  little  boys 
to  be  found  at  a  great  variety  of  places,  but 
most  of  the  girls  wore  green-checked  dresses, 
and  the  boys  were  in  ragged  jackets.  Gypsy 
retraced  every  step  of  the  way  carefully  from 
the  roadside  to  the  chestnut-trees.  Mr.  Jona 
than  Jones,  delighted  that  he  had  actually 
caught  somebody  on  his  ploughed  land,  came 
running  down  with  a  terrible  scolding  on  his 
lips.  But  when  he  saw  Gypsy's  utterly  wretched 
face  and  heard  her  story,  he  helped  her  instead, 
to  search  the  chestnut  grove  and  the  surround 
ing  fields  all  over.  But  there  was  not  a  flutter 
of  Joy's  black  dress,  not  an  echo  of  Winnie's 
cry.  The  sunset  was  fading  fast  in  the  west, 
long  shadows  were  slanting  down  the  valley, 
and  the  blaze  of  the  maples  was  growing  faint. 


84  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

On  the  mountains  it  was  quite  blotted  out  by 
the  gathering  darkness. 

"What,  shall  I  do?"  cried  Gypsy,  thinking 
with  a  great  sinking  at  her  heart,  how  cold  the 
nights  were  now,  and  how  early  it  grew  quite 
dark. 

"  Hev  you  been  'long  that  ere  cross-road  't 
opens  aout  through  the  woods  onto  the  three- 
mile  square ?" asked  Mr.  Jonathan.  "I've  been 
a  thinkin'  on't  as  heow  the  young  uns  might  ha 
took  that  ere  ef  they  was  flustered  'beout  know- 
in'  the  way  neow  mos'  likely." 

"  Oh,  what  a  splendid,  good  man  you  are !" 
said  Gypsy,  jumping  up  and  down,  and  clap 
ping  her  hands  with  delight.  "  Nobody 
thought  of  that,  and  I'll  never  run  over  your 
ploughed-up  land  again  as  long  as  ever  I  live, 
and  I'm  going  right  to  tell  father,  and  you  see 
if  I  do  !  " 

Her  father  wondered  that  they  had  not  thought 
of  it,  and  old  Billy  was  harnessed  in  a  hurry, 


GYPSY   MAKES   A   DISCOVERY.  85 

and  they  started  for  the  three-mile  cross-road. 
Gypsy  went  with  them.  Nobody  spoke  to  her 
except  to  ask  questions  now  and  then  as  to  the 
precise  direction  the  children  teok,  and  the 
time  they  started  for  home.  Gypsy  leaned 
back  in  the  carriage,  peering  out  into  the  gloom 
on  either  side,  calling  Joy's  name  now  and  then, 
or  Winnie's,  and  busy  with  her  own  wretched 
thoughts.  Whatever  they  were,  she  did  not 
very  soon  forget  them. 

It  was  very  dark  now,  and  very  cold ;  the 
crisp  frost  glistened  on  the  grass,  and  an  ugly- 
looking  red  moon  peered  over  the  mountain. 
It  seemed  to  Gypsy  like  a  great,  glaring  eye, 
that  was  singling  her  out  and  following  her, 
and  asking,  "Where  are  Joy  and  Winnie?" 
over  and  over.  "  Gypsy  Breynton,  Gypsy 
Breynton,  where  are  Joy  and  Winnie  ?  "  She 
turned  around  with  her  back  to  it,  so  as  not  to 
see  it. 

Once  they  passed  an  old  woman  on  the  road, 


86  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

hobbling  along  with  a  stick.  Mr.  Breyntcn 
reined  up  and  asked  if  she  had  seen  anything 
of  two  children. 

66  Haow?  "  said  the  old  woman. 

"  Have  you  seen  anything  of  two  children 
along  here  ?  " 

"Chilblains?  No,  I  don't  have  none  this 
time  o'  year,  an'  I  don't  know  what  business  it 
is  o'  yourn,  nuther." 

"  Children  !  "  shouted  Mr.  Breynton ;  "  two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"  Speak  a  little  louder,  can't  you?  I'm 
deef,"  said  the  old  woman. 

'  <  Have  you  —  seen  anything  —  of —  two  — 
children —  a  little  boy,  and  a  girl  in  black? " 

4 '  Chickens  ?  black  cliickens  ?  "  said  the  old 
woman,  with  an  angry  shake  of  the  head ;  "  no, 
I  haint  got  no  chickens  for  yer.  My  pullet's 
white,  and  I  set  a  heap  on't,  an'  wouldn't  sell  it 
to  nobody  as  come  askin'  oncivil  questions  of  a 
lone,  lorn  widdy.  Besides,  the  cat  eat  it  up 
las'  week,  feathers  'n  all." 


GYPSY   MAKES    A   DISCOVERY.  87 

Mr.  Breynton  concluded  there  was  not  much 
information  to  be  had  in  that  quarter,  and  drove 
on. 

A  little  way  farther  they  came  across  a  small 
boy  turning  somersets  in  the  ditch.  Mr. 
Breynton  stopped  again  and  repeated  his  ques 
tions. 

* '  How  many  of  'em  ?  "  asked  the  boy  with  a 
thoughtful  look. 

"  Two,  a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"Two?" 

"Yes." 

"  A  boy  and  a  girl?" 

"Yes." 

' c  You  said  one  was  a  boy  and  t'other  was  a 
girl,"  repeated  the  small  boy,  looking  very 
bright.  . 

"Yes.  The  boy  was  quite  small,  and  the 
girl  wore  a  black  dress.  They're  lost,  and  we're 
trying  to  find  them." 

"  Be  you,  now,  really  ! "  said  the  email  boy, 


88 

apparently  struck  with  sudden  anil  overwhelm 
ing  admiration.  ' '  That  is  terrible  good  in  you. 
Seems  to  me  now  I  reckon  I  see  two  young  una 
'long  here  somewhars,  didn't  I?  Le'  me  see." 
"  Oh,  where,  where?"  cried  Gypsy.  "  Oh, 
I'm  so  glad  !  Did  the  little  boy  have  on  a  plaid 

jacket  and  brown  coat  ?  " 

• 

"  Waall,  now,  seems  as  ef  'twas  somethin1 
like  that."1 

* '  And  the  girl  wore  a  hat  and  a  long  veil  ?  " 
pursued  Gypsy,  eagerly. 

"  Was  she  about  the  height  of  this  girl  here, 
and  whereabouts  did  you  see  her?"  asked  Tom. 

"Waal,  couldn't  tell  exactly;  somewhars 
between  here  an'  the  village,  I  reckon.  Seemg 
to  me  she  did  have  a  veil  or  suthin'." 

*  <  And  she  was  real  pale  ? "  cried  Gypsy, 
"  and  the  boy  was  dreadfully  muddy?" 

"  Couldn't  say  as  to  that," — the  small  boy 
began  to  hesitate  and  look  very  wise  ;  —  "  don't 
seem  to  remember  the  mud,  and  on  the  whole, 


GYPSY   MAKES    A   DISCOVERY.  89 

[  aint  partiklar  sure  'bout  the  veil.  Oh,  come 
to  think  on't,  it  wasn't  a  gal ;  it  was  a  deef  old 
woman,  an'  there  warn't  no  boy  noways." 

Well  was  it  for  the  small  boy  that,  as  the 
carriage  rattled  on,  he  took  good  care  to  be  out 
of  the  reach  of  Tom's  whip -lash. 

It  grew  darker  and  colder,  and  the  red  moon 
rode  on  silently  in  the  sky.  They  had  come 
now  to  the  opening  of  the  cross-road,  but  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  children,  — only  the  still 
road  and  the  shadows  under  the  trees. 

6 'Hark!  what's  that?"  said  Mr.  Breynton, 
suddenly.  He  stopped  the  carriage,  and  they 
all  listened.  A  faint,  sobbing  sound  broke  the 
silence.  Gypsy  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  peering  in  among  the  trees  where  the 
shadow  was  blackest. 

4 '  Father,  may  I  get  out  a  minute  ?  " 

She  sprang  over  the  wheel,  ran  into  the 
cross-road,  into  a  clump  of  bushes,  pushed  them 
aside  —  screamed  for  joy. 


90  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

4 '  Here  they  are,  here  they  are  —  quick, 
quick !  Oh,  Winnie  Breynton,  do  just  wake 
up  and  let  me  look  at  you  !  Oh,  Joy,  I  im  so 
glad ! " 

And  there  on  the  ground,  true  enough,  sat 
Joy,  exhausted  and  frightened  and  sobbing, 
with  Winnie  sound  asleep  in  her  lap. 

"  I  didn't  know  the  way,  and  Winnie  kept 
telling  me  wrong,  and,  oh,  I  was  so  tired,  and 
I  sat  down  to  rest,  and  it  is  so  dark,  and  —  and 
oh,  I  thought  nobody 'd  ever  come  !  " 

And  poor  Joy  sprang  into  her  uncle's  arms, 
and  cried  as  hard  as  she  could  cry. 

Joy  was  thoroughly  tired  and  chilled;  it 
seemed  that  she  had  had  to  carry  Winnie  in  her 
arms  a  large  part  of  the  way,  and  the  child  was 
by  no  means  a  light  weight.  Evidently,  Master 
Winnie  had  taken  matters  pretty  comfortably 
throughout,  having  had,  Joy  said,  the  utmost 
confidence  in  Ms  own  piloting,  declaring  "it 
was  just  the  next  house,  right  around  the  corner, 


GYPSY   MAKES   A    DISCOVERY.  91 

Joy ;  how  stupid  in  her  not  to  know !  —  he 
knew  all  the  whole  of  it  just  as  well  as  any 
thing,"  and  was  none  the  worse  for  the  adven 
ture.  Gypsy  tried  to  wake  him  up,  but  he 
doubled  up  both  fists  in  his  dream,  and  greeted 
her  with  the  characteristic  reply —  "  Naughty  ! '' 
and  that  was  all  that  was  to  be  had  from  him. 
So  he  was  rolled  up  warmly  on  the  carriage 
floor ;  they  drove  home  as  fast  as  Billy  would 
go,  and  the  two  children,  after  a  hot  supper  and 
a  great  many  kisses,  were  put  snugly  to  bed. 

After  Joy  was  asleep,  Mrs.  Breynton  said  she 
would  like  to  see  Gypsy  a  few  moments  down 
stairs. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Gypsy,  and  came  slowly 
down.  They  sat  down  in  the  dining-room 
alone.  Mrs.  Breynton  drew  up  her  rocking- 
chair  by  the  fire,  and  Gypsy  took  the  cricket. 

There  was  a  silence.  Gypsy  had  an  uncom 
fortable  feeling  that  her  mother  was  waiting  for 
fter  to  speak  first.  She  kicked  off  her  slipper, 


92  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

and  put  it  on;  she  rattled  the  tongs,  and 
pounded  the  hearth  with  the  poker ;  she 
smoothed  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes,  and  folded 
up  her  handkerchief  six  times ;  she  looked  up 
sideways  at  her  mother;  then  she  began  to 
cough.  At  last  she  broke  out  — 

"  I  suppose  you  want  me  to  say  I'm  sorry. 
Well,  I  am.  But  I  don't  see  why  I'm  to  blame, 
I'm  sure." 

"  I  haven't  said  you  were  to  blame/'  said  her 
mother,  quietly.  ' '  You  know  I  have  had  no 
time  yet  to  hear  what  happened  this  afternoon, 
and  I  thought  you  would  like  to  tell  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Gypsy,  "  I'd  just  as  lief;  "  and 
Gypsy  looked  a  little,  a  very  little,  as  if  she 
hadn't  just  as  lief  at  all.  "  You  see,  'in  the 
first  place  and  commencing,'  as  Winnie  says, 
Joy  wanted  to  take  him.  Now  she  doesn't  know 
anything  about  that  child,  not  a  thing,  and  if 
ghc'd  taken  him  to  places  as  -much  as  I  have, 
and  kad  to  lug  him  home  screaming  all  the  way, 


GYPSY  MAKES   A   DISCOVERY.  93 

I  guess  she  would  have  stopped  wanting  to, 
pretty  quick,  and  I  always  take  Winnie  when  I 
can,  you  know  now,  mother;  and  then  Joy 
wouldn't  talk  going  over,  either." 

* '  Whom  did  she  walk  with  ?  "  interrupted 
Mrs.  Breynton. 

"Why,  with  Winnie,  I  believe.  Of  course 
she  might  have  come  on  with  Sarah  and  Delia 
and  me  if  she'd  wanted  to,  but  —  I  don't 
know  — " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  "  go  on." 

"  Then,  you  see,  Joy  didn't  like  chestnuts, 
and  couldn't  climb,  and — oh,  Winnie  kept 
losing  his  shoes,  and  got  stuck  in  the  fence,  and 
you  never  saw  anything  so  funny !  And  then 
Joy  couldn't  climb,  and  she  just  hung  there 
swinging,  and  now,  mother,  I  couldn't  help 
laughing  to  save  me,  it  was  so  exactly  like  a  great 
pendulum  with  hoops  on.  Well,  Joy  was  mad 
'cause  we  laughed  and  all,  and  so  she  said  she'd 
go  home.  Then, — let  me  see,  —  oh,  it  wa? 


94 

after  that,  Winnie  tumbled  into  the  ditch,  splash 
in  !  with  his  feet  up  in  the  air,  and  I  thought  I 
should  go  off  to  see  him." 

"  But  what  about  Joy?" 

"  Oh,  well  Joy  took  Winnie, — he  was  so 
funny  and  muddy,  you  don't  know,  —  'cause  she 
brought  Mm,  you  know,  and  so  they  came  home, 
and  I  thought  she  knew  tfre  way  as  much  as 
could  be,  and  I  guess  that's  all." 

"  Well,  said  her  mother,  after  a  pause, 
'  *  what  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 

' <  About  what?" 

"Do  you  think  you  have  done  just  right, 
Gypsy?" 

61 1  don't  see  why  not,"  said  Gypsy,  uneasily. 
66  It  was  perfectly  fair  Joy  should  take  Winnie, 
and  of  course  I  wasn't  bound  to  give  up  my 
nutting  party  and  come  home,  just  for  her." 

' '  I'm  not-  speaking  of  what  is  fair,  Gypsy. 
Strictly  speaking,  Joy  had  her  rights,  and  you 
had  yours,  and  the  arrangement  might  have 


GYPSY   MAKES    A   DISCOVERY.  95 

been  called  fair  enough.  But  what  do  you 
think  honestly,  Gypsy,  —  were  you  a  little  sel 
fish?" 

Gypsy  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Honestly  she 
might  haVe  said  she  didn't  know.  She  was  by 
nature  a  generous  child,  and  the  charge  of  sel 
fishness  was  seldom  brought  against  her. 
Plenty  of  faults  she  had,  but  they  were  faults 
of  quick-temper  and  carelessness.  Of  deliber 
ate  selfishness  it  had  scarcely  ever  occurred  to 
her  that  anybody  could  think  her  capable.  So 
she  echoed  — 

"  Selfish  !  "  in  simple  surprise. 

"  Just  look  at  it,"  said  her  mother,  gently, 
"  Joy  was  your  visitor,  a  stranger,  feeling  awk 
ward  and  unhappy,  most  probably,  with  the 
girls  whom  you  knew  so  well,  and  not  knowing 
anything  about  the  matters  which  you  talked 
over.  You  might,  might  you  not,  have  by  a 
little  effort  made  her  soon  feel  at  home  and 
happy  ?  Instead  of  that,  you  went  off  with  the 


96  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

girls,  and  let  her  fall  behind,  with  nobody  but 
Winnie  to  talk  to." 

Gypsy's  face  turned  to  a  sudden  crimson. 

"  Then,  a  nutting  party  was  a  new  thing  to 
Joy,  and  with  the  care  of  Winnie  and  all,  it  is 
no  wonder  she  did  not  find  it  very  pleasant,  and 
she  had  never  climbed  a  tree  in  her  life.  This 
was  her  first  Saturday  afternoon  in  Yorkbury, 
and  she  was,  no  doubt,  feeling  lonely  and  home 
sick  ,  and  it  made  her  none  the  happier  to  be 
laughed  at  for  not  doing  something  she  had  not 
the  slightest  idea  how  to  do.  Was  it  quite 
generous  to  let  her  start  off  alone,  over  a  strange 
road,  with  the  care  of  a  crying — " 

"  And  muddy,"  put  in  Gypsy,  with  twink 
ling  eyes,  "  from  head  to  foot,  black  as  a  shoe." 

"  And  muddy  child,"  finished  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  But  Joy  wanted  to  take  him,  and  I  told  her 
BO.  It  was  her  own  bargain." 

"  I  know  that.     But  we  are  not  speaking  of 


GYPSY   MAKES   A   DISCOVERY.  97 

oargains,  Gypsy ;  we  are  speaking  of  what  ia 
kind  and  generous.  Now  how  does  it  strike 
you?" 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Gypsy,  in  her  honest 
way,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "it  strikes  me 
that  I'm  a  horrid  selfish  old  thing,  and  I've  lived 
twelve  years  and  just  found  it  out ;  there  now  !  " 

Just  as  Gypsy  was  going  to  bed,  she  turned 
around  with  the  lamp  in  her  hand,  her  great 
eyes  dreaming  away  in  the  brownest  of  brown 
studies. 

"  Mother,  is  it  selfish  to  have  upper  drawers, 
and  front  sides,  and  things?  " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Gypsy?" 

"Why,  don't  my  upper  drawers,  and  the 
front  side  of  the  bed,  and  all  that,  belong  to 
me,  and  must  I  give  them  up  to  Joy  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  said  her  mother,  laugh 
ing.  But  Gypsy  fancied  there  was  a  slight 
tmphasis  on  the  last  wortl. 

Joy  was    sound   asleep,   and   dreaming  that 


98  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Winnie  was  a  rattle-snake  and  Gypsy  a  prairie- 
dog,  when  somebody  gave  her  a  little  pinch  and 
woke  her  up. 

«  Oh  —  why  —  what's  the  matter  ?  "  said 
Joy. 

"  Look  here,  you  might  just  as  well  have  the 
upper  bureau  drawers,  you  know,  and  I  don't 
care  anything  about  the  front  side  of  the  bed. 
Besides,  I  wish  I  hadn't  let  you  come  home 
alone  this  afternoon." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  funniest  I "  said  Joy. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

WHO    PUT    IT   IN? 

N  Monday  Joy  went  to  school.  Gypsy 
had  been  somewhat  astonished,  a  little 
hurt,  and  a  little  angry,  at  hearing  her 
say  one  day,  that  she  •"  didn't  think  it 
was  a  fit  place  for  her  to  go,  — a  high  school 
where  all  the  poor  people  went." 

But  fit  or  not,  it  was  the  only  school  to  be 
had,  and  Joy  must  go.  Perhaps,  on  some 
accounts,  Mrs.  Breynton  would  have  preferred 
sending  the  children  to  a  private  school ;  but  the 
only  one  in  town,  and  the  one  which  Gypsy  had 
attended  until  this  term,  was  broken  up  by  the 
marriage  of  the  teacher,  so  she  had  no  choice  in 
the  matter.  The  boys  at  the  high  school  were 
(99) 


100  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

some  of  them  rude,  but  the  girls  for  the  most 
part  were  quiet,  well-behaved,  and  ladylike,  and 
the  instruction  was  undoubtedly  vastly  superior 
to  that  of  a  smaller  school.  As  Gypsy  said, 
il  you  had  to  put  into  it  and  study  like  every 
thing,  or  else  she  gave  you  a  horrid  old  black 
mark,  and  then  you  felt  nice  when  it  was  read 
aloud  at  examination,  didn't  you?  " 

"  I  wouldn't  care,"  said  Joy. 

"  Why,  Joyce  Miranda  Breynton !  "  said 
Gypsy.  But  Joy  declared  she  wouldn't,  and  it 
was  very  soon  evident  that  she  didn't.  She  had 
not  the  slightest  fancy  for  her  studies,  — neither 
had,  Gypsy,  for  that  matter;  but  Gypsy  had 
been  brought  up  to  believe  it  was  a  disgrace  to 
get  bad  marks.  Joy  had  not.  She  hurried 
through  her  lessons  in  the  quickest  possible 
fashion,  anyhow,  so  as  to  get  through,  and  out 
to  play  ;  and  limped  through  her  recitations  as 
well  as  she  could.  Once  Gypsy  saw  —  and  she 
was  thoroughly  shocked  to  see  —  Joy  peep  into 


WHO  PUT   IT   IN?  101 

the  leaves  of  her  grammar,  when  Miss?  Car- 
drew's  eyes  were  turnec)  -the  o^h^r  ,way,v  ;-  >  »    *'- 
Altogether,  matters  did  not  go  on  very  com 
fortably.     Joy's  faults  were  for  the  most  part 
those  from  which  Gypsy  was  entirely  free,  and 
to  which  she  had  a  special  and  inborn  aversion. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  of  Gypsy's  failings 
were  not  natural  to  Joy.     Gypsy  was  always 
forgetting  things  she  ought  to  remember.     Joy 
seldom  did.     Gypsy  was  thoughtless,  impulsive, 
always  into  mischief,  out  of  it,  sorry  for  it,  and 
in  again.     Joy  did  wrong  deliberately,  as  she 
did  everything  else,  and  did  not  become  penitent 
in  a  hurry.     Gypsy's  temper  was  like  a  flash  of 
lightning,  hot  and  fierce,  and  melting  right  away 
in  the  softest  of  summer  rains.     When  Joy  waa 
angry  ahe  sulked.     Joy  was  precise   and  neat 
about  everything.     Gypsy  was  not.     Then  Joy 
kept  still,  and  Gypsy  talked  ;  Joy  told  parts  of 
stories,  Gypsy  told  the  whole ;  Joy  had  some 
foolish  notions  about  money  and  dresses  and 


102  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

jewelry,  on-  #mb&'  Gypsy  looked  with  the  most 
cupr.ewe .  »;d'riient».p7t,  --:not  6n  the  dresses,  but 
tte  notions.  Therefore  there  was  plenty  of 
material  for  rubs  and  jars,  and  of  all  sad  things 
to  creep  into  a  happy  house,  these  rubs  and  jars 
are  the  saddest. 

One  day  both  the  girls  woke  full  of  mischief. 
It  was  a  bracing  November  day,  cool  as  an  ice 
cream  and  clear  as  a  whistle.  The  air  sparkled 
like  a  fountain  of  golden  sands,  and  was  as  full 
of  oxygen  as  it  could  hold ;  and  oxygen,  you 
must  know,  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  great  deal  of 
the  happiness  and  misery,  goodness  and  bad 
ness,  of  this  world. 

"  I  tell  you  if  I  don't  feel  like  cutting  up  !  " 
said  Gypsy,  on  the  way  to  school.  Gypsy 
didn't  look  unlike  ' '  cutting  up  "  either,  walking 
along  there  with  her  satchel  swung  over  her  left 
shoulder,  her  turban  set  all  askew  on  her  bright, 
black  hair,  her  cheeks  flushed  from  trie  jumping 
of  fences  and  running  of  races  that  had  been 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  103 

going  on  since  she  left  the  house,  and  that  saucy 
twinkle  in  her  eyes.  Joy  was  always  somewhat 
more  demure ?  but  she  looked,  too,  that  morn 
ing,  as  if  she  were  quite  as  ready  to  have  a  good 
time  as  any  other  girl. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Gypsy,  confidentially, 
as  they  went  up  the  schoolhouse  steps,  "  I  feel 
precisely  as  if  I  should  make  Miss  Cardrew  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  to-day  ;  don't  you  ?  " 

* '  What  does  she  do  to  you  if  you  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sometimes  she  keeps  you  after  school, 
and  then  again  she  tells  Mr.  Guernsey,  and 
then  there  are  the  bad  marks.  Miss  Melville, — 
she's  my  old  teacher  that  married  Mr.  Hallam, 
she  was  just  silly  enough  !  —  well,  she  used  to 
just  look  at  you,  and  never  open  her  lips,  and  T 
guess  you  wished  you  hadn't,  pretty  quick." 

It  was  very  early  yet,  but  quite  a  crowd  was 
gathered  in  the  schoolhouse,  as  was  the  fashion 
on  cool  mornings.  The  boys  were  stamping 
noisily  over  the  desks,  and  grouped  about  the 


104 

Btove  in  No.  1.  No.  1  was  the  large  room 
where  the  whole  school  gathered  for  prayer.  A 
few  of  the  girls  were  there,  —  girls  who  laughed 
rudely  and  talked  loudly,  none  of  them  Gypsy's 
friends.  Tom  never  liked  to  have  Gypsy  linger 
about  in  No.  1,  before  or  after  school  hours  ;  he 
said  it  was  not  the  place  for  her,  and  Tom  was 
there  that  morning,  knotting  his  handsome  browa 
up  into  a  very  decided  frown,  when  he  saw  her 
in  the  doorway,  with  Joy  peeping  over  her 
shoulder.  So  Gypsy  —  somewhat  reluctantly, 
it  must  be  confessed,  for  the  boys  seemed  to  be 
having  a  good  time,  and  with  boys'  good  times 
she  had  a  most  unconquerable  sympathy  —  went 
up  with  Joy  into  Miss  Cardrew's  recitation 
room.  Nobody  was  there.  A  great,  empty 
Bchool-room,  with  its  rows  of  silent  seats  and 
closed  desks,  with  power  to  roam  whithersoever 
you  will,  and  do  whatsoever  you  choose,  is  a 
great  temptation.  The  girls  ran  over  the  desks, 
and  looked  into  the  desks,  jumped  over  the  set- 


WHO   PUT    IT   IN?  105 

tees,  and  knocked  down  the  settees,  put  out  the 
fire  and  built  it  up  again,  from  the  pure  luxury 
of  doing  what  they  wanted  to,  in  a  place  where 
they  usually  had  to  do  what  they  didn't  want  to. 
They  sat  in  Miss  Cardrew's  chair,  and  peeped 
into  her  desk;  they  ate  apples  and  snapped 
peanut  shells  on  the  very  platform  where  sat  the 
.spectacled  and  ogre-eyed  Committee  on  exam 
ination  days ;  they  drew  all  manner  of  pictures 
jf  funny  old  women  without  any  head,  and  old 
men  without  any  feet,  on  the  awful  blackboard, 
and  played  "tag"  around  the  globes.  Then 
they  stopped  for  want  of  breath. 

"  I  wish  there  were  something  to  do,"  sighed 
Gypsy;  "something  real  splendid  and  funny." 

"  I  knew  a  girl  once,  and  she  drew  a  picture 
of  the  teacher  on  the  board  in  green  chalk," 
suggested  Joy  ;  ' '  only  she  lost  her  recess  for  a 
whole  week  after  it." 

"That  wouldn't  do.  Besides,  pictures  are 
too  common  ;  everybody  does  those.  Boys  put 


106  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

pins  in  the  seats,  and  cut  off  the  legs  of  the 
teacher's  chair,  and  all  that.  I  don't  know  as  I 
care  to  tumble  Miss  Cardrew  over,  —  wouldn't 
she  look  funny,  though !  —  'cause  mother 
wouldn't  like  it.  Couldn't  we  make  the  stove 
Bnioke,  or  put  pepper  in  the  desks,  or  —  let  me 
see." 

4  *  Dress  up  something  somehow,"  said  Joy, 
"  there's  the  poker." 

Gypsy  shook  her  head. 

"Delia  Guest  did  that  last  term,  'n  the  old 
thing  —  I  mean  the  poker,  not  Delia  —  went 
flat  down  in  the  corner  behind  the  stove  —  flat, 
just  as  Miss  Melville  was  coming  in,  and  lay  there 
in  the  wood-pile,  and  nobody  knew  there  was  a 
single  sign  of  a  thing  going  on.  I  guess  you 
better  believe  Delia  felt  cheap  !  —  hark  !  what's 
that?" 

It  was  a  faint  miaow  down  in  the  yard.  The 
girls  ran  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"A  kitten!" 

"  The  very  thing  I  " 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  107 

"  I'm  going  right  down  to  get  her." 
Down  they  ran,  both  of  them,  in  a  great 
fiurry,  and  brought  the  creature  up.  The  poor 
thing  was  chilled,  and  hungry,  and  frightened. 
They  took  her  up  to  the  stove,  and  Gypsy 
warmed  her  in  her  apron,  and  Joy  fed  her  with 
cookies  from  her  lunch-basket,  till  she  curled 
her  head  under  her  paws  with  a  merry  purr,  all 
ready  for  a  nap,  and  evidently  without  the 
slightest  suspicion  that  Gypsy's  lap  was  not 
foreordained,  and  created  for  her  especial  habita 
tion  as  long  as  she  might  choose  to  remain 
there. 

"  Joy,"  said  Gypsy,  suddenly,  «  I've  thought 
of  something." 

«  So  have  I." 

4 «  To  dress  her  — " 

'  <  Up  in  a  handkerchief,'' 

61  And  things." 

"I  know  it." 

"And  put  her — " 


108  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOT. 

* i  Yes  !  into  Miss  Cardrew's  desk  I  * 

"  Wont  it  be  just — " 

*  *  Splendid  !     Hurry  up  !  " 

They  "  hurried  up  "  in  good  earnest,  choking 
down  their  laughter  so  that  nobody  down  stairs 
might  hear  it.  Joy  took  her  pretty,  purple- 
bordered  handkerchief  and  tied  over  the  poor 
kitten's  head  like  a  night-cap,  so  tight,  that  pull 
and  scratch  as  she  might,  pussy  could  not  get 
it  off.  Gypsy's  black  silk  apron  was  tied  about 
her,  like  a  long  baby-dress,  a  pair  of  mittens 
were  fastened  on  her  arms,  and  a  pink  silk  scarf 
around  her  throat.  When  all  was  done,  Gypsy 
held  her  up,  and  trotted  her  on  her  knee.  Any 
body  who  has  ever  dressed  up  a  cat  like  a  baby, 
knows  how  indescribably  funny  a  sight  it  is. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  girls  could  never  stop  laugh 
ing,  —  it  does  not  take  much  to  mako  girls 
laugh.  At  last  there  was  a  commotion  in  thf 
entry  below. 

"  It's  the  girls  !  — quick,  quick  I  " 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  109 

Gypsy  trying  to  get  up,  tripped  on  her  dress 
and  fell,  and  away  dew  the  kitten  all  tangled  in 
the  apron,  making  for  the  door  as  fast  as  an 
energetic  kitten  could  go. 

"  She'll  be  down  stairs,  and  maybe  Miss  Car 
drew's  there  !      Oh  !  " 

Joy  sprang  after  the  creature,  caught  her  by 
the  very  tip  end  of  her  tail  just  as  she  was  pre 
paring  to  pounce  down  the  stairs,  and  ran  with 
her  to  Miss  Cardrew's  desk. 

"  Put  her  in  —  quick,  quick  !  " 

"  O-oh,  she  wont  lie  still !  " 

* <  Where's  the  lunch-basket  ?  Give  me  some 
biscuit  —  there  !  I  hear  them  on  the  stairs  !  " 

The  kitten  began  to  mew  piteously,  struggling 
to  get  out  with  all  her  might.  Down  went  the 
desk-cover  on  her  paws. 

"  There  now,  lie  still  1  Oh,  hear  her  mew  ! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

Quick  footsteps  were  on  the  stairs,  — half 
way  up  ;  merry  laughter,  and  a  dozen  voices. 


110 

"  Here's  the  biscuit.  Here,  kitty,  kitty,  poor 
kit-ty,  do  please  to  lie  still  and  eat  it  1  Oh,  Joy 
Breynton,  did  you  ever?" 

"  There,  she's  eating!" 

"  Shut  the  desk,  —  hurry  !  " 

When  the  girls  came  in,  Joy  and  Gypsy  were 
in  their  seats,  looking  over  the  arithmetic  lesson. 
Joy's  book  was  upside  down,  and  Gypsy  was 
intensely  interested  in  the  preface. 

Miss  Cardrew  came  in  shortly  after,  and  stood 
warming  her  fingers  at  the  stove,  nodding  and 
smiling  at  the  girls.  All  was  still  so  far,  in  the 
desk.  Miss  Cardrew  went  up  and  laid  down 
her  gloves,  and  pushed  back  her  chair.  Joy 
coughed  under  her  breath,  and  Gypsy  looked  up 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Guernsey  .a  not  well  to-day,"  began 
Miss  Cardrew,  standing  by  the  desk,  "  and  we 
shall  not  be  able  to  meet  as  usual  in  No.  1  for 
prayers.  It  has  been  thought  best  that  each 
department  should  attend  devotions  in  its  own 
room.  You  can  get  out  your  Bibles." 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  HI 

Gypsy  looked   at   Joy,  and  Joy   looked  at 

Gypsy. 

Miss  Cardrew  sat  down.  It  was  very  still. 
A  muffled  scratching  sound  broke  into  the  pause. 
Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  carelessly  as  if  to  see 
where  it  came  from  ;  it  stopped. 

"  She'll  open  her  desk  now,"  whispered  Joy, 
stooping  to  pick  up  a  book. 

"  See  here,  Joy,  I  almost  wish  we  hadn't — " 

"We   will   read  the  fourteenth   chapter  of 

John,"  spoke  up  Miss  Cardrew,  with  her  Bible 

in  her  hand.     No,  she  hadn't  opened  her  desk. 

The  Bible  lay  upon  the  outside  of  it. 

"  Oh,  if  that  biscuit  '11  only  last  till  she  geta 
through  praying  !  " 

"  Hush-sh  !     She's  looking  this  way." 
Miss  Cardrew  began  to  read.     She  had  read 
just  four  verses,  when  — 
"  Miaow!" 

Gypsy  and  Joy  were  trying  very  hard  to  find 
the  place.  Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  and  around 


112  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

the  room.  It  was  quite  still.  She  read  two 
verses  more. 

"  Mi-aow  !  mi-aow-aow  !  " 

Miss  Cardrew  looked  up  again,  around  the 
room,  over  the  platform,  under  the  desk,  every 
where  but  in  it. 

"  Girls,  did  any  of  you  make  that  sound?" 

Nobody  had.  Miss  Cardrew  began  to  read 
again.  All  at  once  Joy  pulled  Gypsy's  sleeve. 

"  Just  look  there!  " 

«  Where?" 

*  *  Trickling  down  the  outside  of  the  desk  !  " 

"  You  don't  suppose  she's  upset  the — " 

"  Ink-bottle,  — yes." 

Miss  Cardrew  was  in  the  tenth  verse,  and  the 
room  was  very  still.  Right  into  the  stillness 
there  broke  again  a  distinct,  prolonged,  dolor 
ous  — 

4  *  Mi  -&QW-CLOW  !  * 

And  this  time  Miss  Cardrew  laid  down  her 
Bible  and  lifted  the  desk-cover. 


WHO   PUT    IT   IN?  113 

It  is  reported  in  school  to  this  day  that 
Aliss  Cardrew  jumped. 

Out  flew  the  kitten,  like. popped  corn  from  a 
ehovel,  glared  over  the  desk  in  the  night-cap 
and  black  apron,  leaped  down,  and  flew,  all 
dripping  with  ink,  down  the  aisle,  out  of  the 
door,  and  bouncing  down  stairs  like  an  India- 
rubber  ball. 

Delia  Guest  and  one  or  two  of  the  other  girls, 
screamed.  Miss  Cardrew  flung  out  some  books 
and  papers  from  the  desk.  It  was  too  late  ;  they 
were  dripping,  and  drenched,  and  black.  The 
teacher  quietly  wiped  some  spots  of  ink  from 
her  pretty  blue  merino,  and  there  was  an  awful 
silence. 

"  Girls,"  said  Miss  Cardrew  then,  in  her 
grave,  stern  way,  "  who  did  this?" 

Nobody  answered. 

* '  Who  put  that  cat  in  my  desk  ?  "  repeated 
Miss  Cardrew. 

It  was  perfectly  still.  Gypsy's  cheeks  were 
8 


114  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

scarlet.  Joy  was  looking  carelessly  about  the 
room,  scanning  the  faces  of  the  girls,  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  find  out  who  was  the  guilty  one. 
"  It  is  highly  probable  that  the  cat  tied  her 
self  into  an  apron,  opened  the  desk  and  shut  the 
cover  down  on  herself,"  said  Miss  Cardrew ; 
"  we  will  look  into  this  matter.  Delia  Guest, 
did  you  put  her  in  ?  " 

«  No  'm  —  he,  he  !  I  guess  I  —  ha,  ha  I  — 
didn't,"  said  Delia. 

' '  Next ;  "  —  and  down  the  first  row  went 
Miss  Cardrew,  asking  the  same  question  of  every 
girl,  and  the  second  row,  and  the  third.  Gypsy 
sat  on  the  end  of  the  fourth  settee. 

"  Gypsy  Breynton,  did  you  put  the  kitten  in 
my  desk?" 

"No  'm,  I  didn't,"  said  Gypsy;  which  was 
true  enough.  It  was  Joy  who  did  that  part  of 
it. 

4  <  Did  you  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter,  Gypsy?"  Perhaps  Miss  Cardrew  re- 


WHO   PUT  IT   IN?  115 

membered  that  Gypsy  had  had  something  to  do 
with  a  few  other  similar  matters  since  she  had 
been  in  school. 

"  Yes'm,"  said  honest  Gypsy,  with  crimson 
face  and  hanging  head,  "  I  did." 
"What  did  you  do  ?" 

"  I  put  on  the  apron  and  the  tippet,  and  — 1 
gave  her  the  biscuit.     I  —  thought  she'd  keep 
still  till  prayers  were  over,"  said  Gypsy,  faintly. 
4  <  But  you  did  not  put  her  in  the  desk  ?  " 
"No'm. 

4  *  And  you  know  who  did  ?  " 
4 *  Yes'm." 

Miss  Cardrew  never  asked  her  scholars  to  tell 
of  each  other's  wrong -doings.  If  she  had,  it 
would  have  made  no  difference  to  Gypsy.  She 
had  shut  up  her  lips  tight,  and  not  another  word 
would  she  have  said  for  anybody.  She  had 
told  the  truth  about  herself,  but  she  was  under 
no  obligations  to  bring  Joy  into  trouble.  Joy 
might  do  as  she  liked. 


116  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Gypsy  Breynton  will  lose  her  recesses  fcr 
a  week  and  stay  an  hour  after  school  to-night," 
said  Miss  Cardrew.  "  Joy,  did  you  put  the 
kitten  in  my  desk  ?  " 

"  No  ma'am,"  said  Joy,  boldly. 

* '  Nor  have  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

11  No  ma'am,"  said  Joy,  without  the  slightest 
change  of  color. 

"  Next,  — Sarah  Rowe." 

Of  course  Sarah  had  not,  nor  anybody  else. 
Miss  Cardrew  let  the  matter  drop  there  and 
went  on  with  her  reading. 

Gypsy  sat  silent  and  sorry,  her  eyes  on  her 
Testament.  Joy  tried  to  whisper  something  to 
her  once,  but  Gypsy  turned  away  with  a  ges 
ture  of  impatience  and  disgust.  This  thing  Joy 
had  done,  had  shocked  her  so  that  she  felt  as  if 
she  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  her  face,  or 
touch  of  her  hand.  Never  since  she  was  a  very 
little  child,  had  Gypsy  been  known  to  say  what 
was  not  true.  All  her  words  were  like  her 
eyes,  —  clear  as  sunbeams. 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  117 

At  dinner  Joy  did  all  the   talking.      Mrs. 
Breynton  asked  Gypsy  what  was  the  matter 
.but   Gypsy  said  "  Nothing."     If  Joy  did  not 
choose  to  tell  of  the  matter,  she  would  not. 

"  What  makes  you  so  cross?"  said  Joy,  in 
the  afternoon ;  « '  nobody  can  get  a  word  out  of 
you,  and  you  don't  look  at  me  any  more  than  if 
I  weren't  here." 

" 1  don't  see  how  you  can  ask  such  a  ques 
tion  ! "  exploded  Gypsy,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  You  know  what  you've  done  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  grumbled  Joy  ;  just  'cause  I 
didn't  tell  Miss  Cardrew  about  that  horrid  old 
cat  —  I  wish  we'd  let  the  ugly  thing  alone  !  — 
I  don't  see  why  you  need  treat  me  as  if  I'd  been 
murdering  somebody  and  were  going  to  be  hung 
for  it.  Besides,  I  said  *  Over  the  left '  to  my 
self  just  after  I'd  told  her,  and  J  didn't  want  to 
lose  my  recess  if  you  did." 

Gypsy  shut  up  her  pink  lips  tight,  and  made 
no  answer. 


118  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Joy  went  out  to  play  at  recess,  and  Gypsy 
stayed  in  alone  and  studied.  Joy  went  home 
with  the  girls  in  a  great  frolic  after  school,  and 
Gypsy  stayed  shut  up  in  the  lonely  school-room 
for  an  hour,  disgraced  and  miserable.  But  I 
have  the  very  best  of  reasons  for  thinking  that 
she  wasn't  nearly  as  miserable  as  Joy. 

Just  before  supper  the  two  girls  were  sitting 
drearily  together  in  the  dining-room,  when  the 
door-bell  rang. 

"  It's  Miss  Cardrew  !  "  said  Joy,  looking  out 
of  the  window ;  * '  what  do  you  suppose  she 
wants?" 

Gypsy  looked  up  carelessly ;  she  didn't  very 
much  care.  She  had  told  Miss  Cardrew  all  she 
had  to  tell,  and  received  her  punishment.  As 
for  her  mother,  she  would  have  gone  to  her 
with  the  whole  story  that  noon,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Joy's  part  in  it. 

"  What  is  that  she  has  in  her  hand,  I  won 
der?"  said  Joy  uneasily,  peeping  through  a 


WHO   PUT   IT   IN?  119 

crack  in  the  door  as  Miss  Cardrew  passed 
through  the  entry ;  "  why,  I  declare  !  if  it  isr't 
a  handkerchief,  as  true  as  you  live  —  all  — 
inky ! " 

When  Miss  Cardrew  had  gone,  Mrs.  Breyn- 
ton  came  out  of  the  parlor  with  a  very  grave 
face,  a  purple-bordered  handkerchief  in  her 
hand ;  it  was  all  spotted  with  ink,  and  the  ini 
tials  J.  M.  B.  were  embroidered  on  it. 

16  Joy." 

Joy  came  out  of  the  corner  slowly. 

"  Come  here  a  minute." 

Joy  went  and  the  door  was  shut.  Just  what 
happened  that  next  half  hour  Gypsy  never  knew. 
Joy  came  up  stairs  at  the  end  of  it,  red-eyed 
and  crying,  and  gentle. 

Gypsy  was  standing  by  the  window. 

"  Gypsy." 

"Well." 

"  I  love  auntie  dearly,  now  I  guess  I  do." 

"Of  course,"  said  Gypsy;  "everybody 
iocs." 


120  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  it  was  so  wicked,  — 
not  the  least  idea.  Mother  used  to  — " 

But  Joy  broke  off  suddenly,  with  quivering, 
crimson  lips. 

What  that  mother  used  to  do  Gypsy  never 
asked ;  Joy  never  told  her,  —  either  then,  or  at 
any  other  time. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

PEACE  MAYTHOKNE'S  ROOM 


It  isn't,  either." 
1  know  just  as  well  as  you." 
No  you  don't   any  such  a  thing. 
You've  lived  up  here  in  this  old  country  place 
all  your  life,  and  you  don't  know   any   more 
about  the  fashions  than  Mrs.  Surly." 

*  *  But  1  know  it's  perfectly  ridiculous  to  rig 
up  in  white  chenille  and  silver  pins,  when  any 
body's  in  such  deep  mourning  as  you.  1 
wouldn't  do  it  for  anything." 

"I'll  take  care  of  myself,  if  you  please, 
Miss." 

"  And  Jknow  another  thing,  too." 

121 


122  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  You  do  !     A  whole  thing  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  know  you're  just  as  proud  aa 
you  can  be,  and  I've  heard  more  'n  one  person 
say  so.  All  the  girls  think  you're  dreadfully 
stuck  up  about  your  dresses  and  things  —  so 
there  1 " 

"I  don't  care  what  the  girls  think,  or  you 
either.  I  guess  I'll  be  glad  when  father  comes 
home  and  I  get  out  of  this  house  ! " 

Joy  fastened  the  gaudy  silver  pins  with  a  jerk, 
into  the  heavy  white  chenille  that  she  was  tying 
about  her  throat  and  hair,  turned  herself  about 
before  the  glass  with  a  last  complacent  look,  and 
walked,  in  her  deliberate,  cool,  provoking  way, 
from  the  room.  Gypsy  got  up,  and  —  slammed 
the  door  on  her. 

Very  dignified  proceedings,  certainly,  for 
girls  twelve  and  thirteen  years  old.  An  un 
speakably  important  matter  to  quarrel  nbout,  — 
K  piece  of  white  chenille  !  Angry  people,  be  it 
remembered,  are  not  given  to  over-much  dig- 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          123 

oity,  and  how  many  quarrels  are  of  the  slightest 
importance  ? 

Yet  the  things  these  two  girls  found  to  dispute, 
and  get  angry,  and  get  miserable,  and  make  the 
whole  family  miserable  over,  were  so  ridiculous 
ly  petty  that  I  hardly  expect  to  be  believed  in 
telling  of  them.  The  front  side  of  the  bed,  the 
upper  drawer  in  a  bureau,  a  hair-ribbon,  who 
should  be  helped  first  at  the  table,  who  was  the 
best  scholar,  which  was  the  more  stylish  color, 
drab  or  green,  and  whether  Vermont  wasn't  a 
better  State  than  Massachusetts,  —  such  matters 
might  very  appropriately  be  the  subjects  of  the 
dissensions  of  young  ladies  in  pinafores  and  pan 
talettes. 

Yet  I  think  you  will  bear  me  witness,  girls, 
some  of  you  —  ah,  I  know  you  by  the  sudden 
pink  in  your  cheeks,  —  who  have  gone  to  live 
with  a  cousin,  or  had  a  cousin  live  with  you,  or 
whose  mother  has  adopted  an  orphan,  :>r  taken 
charge  of  a  missionary's  daughter,  or  ji  somg 


124  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

way  or  other  have  been  brought  for  the  first 
time  in  your  life  into  daily  and  hourly  collision 
with  another  young  will  just  as  strong  and 
unbending  as  yours, — can't  you  bear  me  wit 
ness  that,  in  these  little  contests  between  Joy 
and  Gypsy,  I  am  telling  no  "  made-up  stories," 
but  sad,  simple  fact? 

If  you  can't,  I  am  very  glad  of  it. 

'No,  as  I  said  before,  matters  were  not  going 
on  at  all  comfortably ;  and  every  week  seemed 
to  make  them  worse.  Wherein  lay  the  trouble, 
and  how  to  prevent  it,  neither  of  the  girls  had 
as  yet  exerted  themselves  to  think. 

A  week  or  two  after  the  adventures  that  befel 
that  unfortunate  kitten,  something  happened 
which  threatened  to  make  the  breach  between 
Gypsy  and  Joy  of  a  very  serious  nature.  It 
began,  as  a  great  many  other  serious  things 
begin,  in  a  very  small  and  rather  funny  affair. 

Mrs.  Surly,  who  has  been  spoken  of  as 
Gypsy's  particular  aversion,  was  a  queer  old 


GYPSY  AND  TOM  PLAYING  STICK  KNIFE.    PAGE  125, 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          125 

lady  with  green  glasses,  who  lived  opposite  Mr. 
Breynton's,  who  felt  herself  particularly  respon 
sible  for  Gypsy's  training,  and  gave  her  good 
advice,  double  measure,  pressed  down  and  run 
ning  over.  One  morning  it  chanced  that  Gypsy 
was  playing  "  stick-knife"  with  Tom  out  in  the 
front  yard,  and  that  Mrs.  Surly  beheld  from  her 
parlor  window,  and  that  Mrs.  Surly  was 
shocked.  She  threw  up  her  window,  and  called 
in  an  awful  voice  — 

« '  Jemima  Breynton  ! " 

Now  you  might  about  as  well  challenge  Gypsy 
to  a  duel  as  call  her  Jemima  ;  so  — 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  said,  none  too 
respectfully. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Jemima 
Breynton." 

*«  Say  ahead,"  said  Gypsy,  under  her  breath, 
and  did  not  stir  an  inch.  Distance  certainly 
lent  enchantment  to  the  view  when  Mrs.  Svrty 
was  in  the  case. 


126  GYPSY'S  cot  SIN  JOY. 

"  Does  your  ma  allow  you  to  be  so  bold  as  to 
play  boys'  games  with  boys,  right  out  in  siglit 
of  folks?"  vociferated  Mrs.  Surly. 

"Certainly,"  nodded  Gypsy;  "it's  your 
turn,  Tom." 

"Well,  it's  my  opinion,  Gypsy  Breynton, 
you're  a  romp.  You're  nothing  but  a  romp, 
and  if  /  was  your  ma  — " 

Tom  dropped  his  knife  just  then,  stood  up 
and  looked  at  Mrs.  Surly.  For  reasons  best 
known  to  herself,  Mrs.  Surly  shut  the  window, 
and  contented  herself  with  glaring  through  the 
glass. 

Now  Joy  had  stood  in  the  doorway  and  been 
witness  to  the  scene,  and  moreover,  having  been 
reproved  by  her  aunt  for  something  or  other  that 
morning,  she  felt  ill  humored,  and  very  ready 
to  find  fault  in  her  turn. 

"  I  think  it's  just  so,  anyway,"  she  said  ;  "  1 
wouldn't  be  seen  playing  stick-knife  for  a  good 
deal." 


PEACE   MAY1HORNE?S   ROOM.  127 

"And  I  wouldn't  be  seen  telling  lies!" 
retorted  Gypsy,  —  sorry  for  it  the  minute  she 
had  said  it.  Then  there  followed  a  highly 
interesting  dialogue  of  about  five  minutes' 
length,  and  of  such  a  character  tLat  Ton? 
speedily  took  his  departure. 

Now  it  came  about  that  Gypsy,  as  usual,  was 
the  first  ready  to  "make  up,"  and  she  turned 
over  plan  after  plan  in  her  mind,  to  find  some 
thing  pleasant  she  could  do  for  Joy.  At  last, 
as  the  greatest  treat  she  could  think  of  to  offer 
her,  she  said  — 

* « I'll  tell  you  what !  Let's  go  down  to  Peace 
Maythorne's.  I  do  believe  I  haven't  teken  you 
there  sinc<3  you've  been  in  Yorkbury." 

"Who's  Peace  Maythorne?"  asked  Joy, 
sulkily. 

"  Well,  ske's  the  person  I  love  just  about  best 
of  anybody." 

"Best  of  anybody!" 

"  Oh,  mother  of  course,  and  Tom,  and  Win- 


128  GYPSY'S   COUSIN   JOY. 

aie,  and  father,  and  all  those.  Relations  don't 
count.  But  I  do  love  her  as  well  as  anybody 
but  mother  —  and  Tom,  and  —  well,  anyway, 
I  love  her  dreadfully." 

"  What  is  she,  a  woman,  or  a  girl,  or  what?  " 

"  She's  an  angel,"  said  Gypsy. 

'  '  What  a  goose  you  are  !  " 

* «  Very  likely ;  but  whether  I'm  a  goose  or 
not,  she's  an  angel.  I  look  for  the  wings  every 
time  I  see  her.  She  has  the  sweetest  little  way 
of  keeping  'em  folded  up,  and  you're  always  on 
the  jump,  thinking  you  see  'em." 

4 '  How  you  talk  1  I've  a  good  mind  to  go 
and  see  her." 

"  All  right." 

So  away  they  went,  as  pleasant  as  a  summer's 
day,  merrily  chatting. 

"  But  I  don't  think  angels  are  very  nice,  gen 
erally,"  said  Joy,  doubtingly.  "  They  preach. 
Does  Peace  May  thorne  preach  ?  I  shan't  like 
her  if  she  does." 


PEACE  MAYTHOENE'S  KOOM.          129 

«  *  Peace  preach  !  Not  like  her  !  You'd 
better  know  what  you're  talking  about,  if  you're 
going  to  talk,"  said  Gypsy,  with  heightened 
color. 

"Dear  me,  you  take  a  body's  head  off  I 
Well,  if  she  should  preach,  I  shall  come  right 
home." 

They  had  come  now  to  the  village,  where 
were  the  stores  and  the  post-office,  the  bank, 
and  some  handsome  dwelling-houses.  Also  the 
one  paved  sidewalk  of  Yorkbury,  whereon  the 
young  people  did  their  promenading  after  school 
in  the  afternoon.  Joy  always  fancied  coming 
here,  gay  in  her  white  chenille  and  white  rib 
bons,  and  dainty  parasol  lined  with  white  silk. 
There  is  nothing  so  showy  as  showy  mourning, 
and  Joy  made  the  most  of  it. 

"  Why,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  she  exclaimed 
a,t  last.     Gypsy  had  turned  away  from  the  fash 
ionable  street,  and  the  handsome  houses,  and 
the  paved  sidewalk. 
9 


130  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  To  Peace  Maythorne's." 

«  This  way?" 

"  This  way." 

The  street  into  which  Gypsy  had  turned  was 
narrow  and  not  over  clean  ;  he  houses  un- 
painted  and  low.  As  they  walked  on  it  grew 
narrower  and  dirtier,  and  the  houses  became 
tenement  houses  only. 

' '  Do  for  pity's  sake  hurry  and  get  out  of 
here,"  said  Joy,  daintily  holding  up  her  dress. 
Gypsy  walked  on  and  said  nothing.  Red-faced 
women  in  ragged  dresses  began  to  cluster  on 
the  steps ;  muddy-faced  children  screamed  and 
quarrelled  in  the  road.  At  the  door  of  a  large 
tenement-building,  somewhat  neater  than  the 
rest,  but  miserable  enough,  Gypsy  stopped. 

'  *  What  are  you  stopping  for  ?  "  said  Joy. 

"  This  is  where  she  lives." 

"Here!" 

"  I  just  guess  she  does,"  put  in  a  voice  from 
behind  ;  it  was  Winnie,  who  had  followed  them 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          131 

on  tip- toe  unknown  to  them,  all  the  way. 
"  She's  got  a  funny  quirk  in  her  back,  'n  she 
lies  down  pretty  much.  That's  her  room  up 
there  to  the  top  of  the  house.  It's  a  real  nice 
place,  I  tell  you.  They  have  onions  mos'  every 
day.  Besides,  I  saw  a  little  boy  here  one  time 
when  I  was  comin'  'long  with  mother,  'n  he  was 
smokin'  some  tobaccer.  He  said  he'd  give  it  to 
me  for  two  nappies,  and  mother  just  wouldn't 
let  me." 

*  *  Here  —  a  cripple  !  "  exclaimed  Joy. 

"  Here,    and  a  cripple,"  said  Gypsy,  in   a 

queer  tone,  looking  very  straight  at  Joy. 

' '  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !  " 

broke  out  Joy,  "  playing  such  a  trick  on  me. 

Do  you  suppose  Fm  going  into  such  a  place  as 

this,  to  see  an  old  beggar, — a  hunch-backed 

beggar  ? " 

Gypsy  turned  perfectly   white.      When  she 

was  very  angry,  too  angry  to  speak,  she  always 

turned  white.     It  was  some  seconds  before  she 

could  find  her  voice. 


132  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  A  hunch-baclced  beggar!  Peace?  How 
dare  you  say  such  things  of  Peace  Maythorne  ? 
Joy  Breynton,  I'll  never  forgive  you  for  this  as 
long  as  I  live  —  never  !  " 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other.  Just  at 
that  moment  I  am  afraid  there  was  something  in 
their  hearts  answering  to  that  forbidden  word, 
that  terrible  word — hate.  Ah,  we  feel  so  safe 
from  it  in  our  gentle,  happy,  untempted  lives, 
just  as  safe  as  they  felt  once.  Remember  this, 
girls  ;  when  Love  goes  out,  Hate  comes  in.  In 
your  heart  there  stands  an  angel,  watching, 
silent,  on  whose  lips  are  kindly  words,  in  whose 
hands  are  patient,  kindly  deeds,  whose  eyes  see 
"  good  in  everything,"  something  to  love  where 
love  is  hardest,  some  generous,  gentle  way  to, 
show  that  love,  when  ways  seem  closed.  In 
your  heart,  too,  away  down  in  its  darkest 
corner,  all  forgotten,  perhaps,  by  you,  crouches 
something  with  face  too  black  to  look  upon, 
something  that  likewise  watches  and  waits  with 


1'EACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          133 

horrible  patience,  if  perhaps  the  angel,  with 
folded  wing  and  drooping  head,  may  be  driven 
out.  It  is  never  empty, — this  curious,  fickle 
heart.  One  or  the  other  must  stand  there,  king 
of  it.  One  or  the  other,  —  and  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  the  change  is  made,  from  angel  to 
fiend,  from  fiend  to  angel;  just  which  you 
choose. 

Joy  broke  away  from  her  cousin  in  a  passion. 
Gypsy   flew   into   the   door   of    the   miserable 
house,  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  to  the 
door  of  a  low  room  in  the  second  story,  and 
rushed  in  without  knocking. 
"  Oh,  Peace  Maythorne  !  " 
The  cripple  lying  on  the  bed,  turned  her  pale 
face  to  the  door,  her  large,  quiet  eyes  blue  with 
wonder. 

"  Why,  Gypsy  !  What  is  the  matter?" 
Gypsy's  face   was   white    still,   very   white. 
She  shut  the  door  loudly,  and  sat  down  on  the 
bed  with  a  jar  that  shook  it  all  over.     A  faint 
expression  of  pain  crossed  the  face  of  Peace. 


134 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to,  — it  was  cruel  in 
me !  How  could  I  ?  Have  1  hurt  you  very 
badly,  Peace?"  Gypsy  slipped  down  upon  the 
floor,  the  color  coming  into  her  face  now,  from 
shame  and  sorrow.  Peace  gently  motioned  her 
back  to  her  place  upon  the  bed,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  no.  It  was  nothing.  Sit  up  here; 
I  like  to  have  you.  Now,  what  is  it,  Gypsy?" 

The  tone  of  this  "  What  is  it,  Gypsy?"  told 
a  great  deal.  It  told  that  it  was  no  new  thing 
for  Gypsy  to  come  there  just  so,  with  her 
troubles  and  her  joys,  her  sins  and  her  well 
doings,  her  plans  and  hopes  and  fears,  all  the 
little  stories  of  the  fresh,  young  life  from  which 
the  cripple  was  forever  shut  out.  It  told,  too, 
what  Gypsy  found  in  this  quiet  room,  and  took 
away  from  it,  —  all  the  help  and  the  comfort, 
and  the  sweet,  sad  lessons.  It  told  besides, 
much  of  what  Peace  and  Gypsy  were  to  each 
other,  that  only  they  two  should  ever  exactly 
understand.  It  was  a  tone  that  always  soft- 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          135 

cned  Gypsy,  in  her  gayest  frolics,  in  her  wildest 
moods.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known 
Peace,  it  failed  to  soften  her  now. 

She  began  in  her  impetuous  way,  her  face 
angry  and  flushed,  her  voice  trembling  yet :  — 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is,  and  that's  the 
thing  of  it !  It's  about  that  horrid  old  Joy." 

"Gypsy!" 

"  I  can't  help  it,  —I  hate  her  !  " 

"  Gypsy." 

Gypsy's  eyes  fell  at  the  gentle  word. 

66  Well,  I  felt  just  as  if  I  did,  down  there  on 
the  steps,  anyway.  You  don't  know  what  Joy 
said.  It's  something  about  you,  and  that's  what 
makes  me  so  mad.  If  she  ever  says  it  again  !  " 

"  About  me?  "  interrupted  Peace. 

"Yes,"  said  Gypsy,  with  great,  flashing 
eyes,  "I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  you  for  all  the 
world ;  it's  so  bad  as  that,  Peace.  How  she 
dared  to  call  you  a  beg — " 

Gypsy  stopped  short.  But  she  had  let  the 
cat  out  of  the  bag.  Peace  smiled  again. 


136  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  A  beggar?  Well,  it  doesn't  hurt  me  any, 
does  it?  Joy  has  never  seen  me,  doesn't  know 
me,  you  must  remember,  Gypsy.  Besides, 
nobody  else  thinks  as  much  of  me  as  you  do." 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that ;  I'm  always  say 
ing  the  wrong  thing  !  Anyway,  that  isn't  all 
of  it,  and  I  did  think  I  should  .strike  her  when 
she  said  it.  I  can't  bear  Joy.  You  don't  know 
what  she  is,  Peace.  She  grows  worse  and 
worse.  She  does  things  I  wouldn't  do  for  any 
thing,  and  I  wish  she'd  never  come  here  !  " 

"  Is  Joy  always  wrong?"  asked  Peace,  gen 
tly.  Peace  rarely  gave  to  any  one  as  much 
of  a  reproof  as  that.  Gypsy  felt  it. 

"No,"  said  she,  honestly,  "  she  isn't.  I'm 
real  horrid  and  wicked,  and  do  ugly  things. 
But  I  can't  help  it ;  Joy  makes  me,  —  she  acts 
BO." 

6  *  I  know  what's  the  matter  with  you  and  Joy, 
I  guess,"  said  Peace. 

"  The  matter?     Well,  I  don't ;  I  wish  I  did. 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          137 

We're  always  fight,  fighting,  day  in  and  day 
out,  and  I'm  tired  to  death  of  it.  I'm  just 
crazy  for  the  time  for  Joy  to  go  home,  and  I'm 
dreadfully  unhappy  having  her  round,  now  I 
am,  Peace." 

Gypsy  drew  down  her  merry,  red  lips,  and 
looked  very  serious.  To  tell  the  truth,  however, 
do  the  best  she  would,  she  could  not  look  alto 
gether  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking  from  the 
amount  of  "  unhappiness"  that  fell  to  her  lot. 
A  little  smile  quivered  around  the  lips  of  Peace. 

"Well,"  said  Gypsy,  laughing  in  spite  of 
herself,  "I  am.  I  never  can  make  anybody 
believe  it,  though.  What  is  the  matter  with 
Joy  and  me?  You  didn't  say." 

"  You've  forgotten  something,  I  think." 

« «  Forgotten  something  ?  " 

««  Yes,  —  something  you  read  me  once  out  of 
an  old  Book." 

"Book?  Oh,"  said  Gypsy,  beginning  t:i 
understand. 


138  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  In  honor  preferring  one  another,"  said 
Peace,  softly.  Gypsy  did  not  say  anything. 
Peace  took  up  her  Bible  that  lay  on  the  bed 
beside  her,  —  it  always  lay  on  the  bed,  —  and 
turned  the  leaves,  and  laid  her  finger  on  the 
verse.  Gypsy  read  it  through  before  she  spoke. 
Then  she  said  slowly  — 

* «  Why,  Peace  Maythorne.  I  —  never  could 
—  in  this  world — never." 

Just  then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Gypsy  went  to  open  it,  and  stood  struck  dumb 
for  amazement.  It  was  Joy. 

"  Auntie  said  it  was  supper-time,  and  you 
were  to  come  home,"  began  Joy,  somewhat 
embarrassed.  "  She  was  going  to  send  Winnie, 
but  I  thought  I'd  come." 

"  Why,  I  never  !  "  said  Gypsy,  still  standing 
with  the  door-knob  in  her  hand. 

"  Is  this  your  cousin?  "  spoke  up  Peace. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot.  This  is  Peace  May 
thorne,  Joy." 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          139 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Peace,  in  her 
pleasant  way  ;  « '  won't  you  come  in  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  will,  a  minute,"  said 
Joy  awkwardly,  taking  a  chair  by  the  window, 
and  wondering  if  Gypsy  had  told  Peace 
what  she  said.  But  Peace  was  so  cordial,  her 
voice  so  quiet,  and  her  eyes  so  kind,  that  she 
concluded  she  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  soon 
felt  quite  at  her  ease.  Everybody  was  at  ease 
with  Peace  Maythorne. 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  here  !  "  said  Joy,  look 
ing  about  the  room  in  unfeigned  astonishment. 
And  indeed  it  was.  The  furniture  was  poor 
enough,  but  everything  was  as  neat  as  fresh 
wax,  and  the  sunlight,  that  somehow  or  other 
always  sought  that  room  the  earliest,  and  left  it 
the  latest, — the  warm,  shimmering  sunlight 
that  Peace  so  loved,  —  was  yellow  on  the  old, 
faded  carpet,  on  the  paperless,  pictureless  wall, 
on  the  bed  where  the  hands  of  Peace  lay,  pa* 
tient  and  folded. 


140  GYPSY'S   COUSIN  JOY. 

"It  is  pleasant,"  said  Peace,  heartily. 
"You  don't  know  how  thankful  it  makes  me. 
Aunt  came  very  near  taking  a  room  on  the 
north  side.  Sometimes  I  really  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done.  But  then,  I  guess  1 
should  have  found  something  else  to  like." 

I  should  have  found  something  else.  A  sudden 
thought  came  to  the  two  girls  then,  in  a  dim, 
childish  way,  —  a  thought  they  could  by  no 
means  have  explained :  they  wondered  if  in 
those  few  words  did  not  lie  the  key  to  Peace 
Maythorne's  beautiful,  sorrowful  life.  They 
would  not  have  expressed  it  so ;  but  that  was 
what  they  meant. 

"  See  here,"  broke  out  Gypsy  all  at  once, 
*  *  Peace  Maythorne  wants  you  and  me  to  make 
up,  Joy." 

"  Your  cousin  will  think  Pm  interfering  with 
what's  none  of  my  business,"  said  Peace,  laugh 
ing  ;  "I  didn't  say  exactly  that,  you  know ;  I 
was  only  talking  to  you." 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM.          141 

"Oh,  I'd  just  as  lief  make  .ip  now,  but 
I  wouldn't  this  morning,"  said  Joy,  wondering 
for  the  second  time  if  Peace  could  know  what 
she  said,  and  be  so  gentle  and  good  to  her ; 
"I  will  if  Gypsy  will." 

"  And  I  will  if  Joy  will,"  said  Gypsy,  "  so 
it's  a  bargain." 

"  Do  you  have  a  great  deal  of  pain?  "  asked 
Joy,  as  they  rose  to  go,  with  real  sympathy  in 
her  puzzled  eyes. 

"Oh,  yes  ;  but  then  I  get  along." 
"Peace   Maythorne !  "    put   in    Gypsy  just 
then,  "  is  that  all  the  dinner  you  ate? "     Gypsy 
was  standing  by  the  table  on  which  was  a  plate 
containing  a  cold  potato,   a  broken  piece    of 
bread,    and   a   bit   of   beefsteak.       Evidently, 
from  the  looks  of  the  food,  only  a  few  mouth- 
fuls  had  been  eaten. 

"  I  didn't  feel  hungry,"  said  Peace,  evasively. 
"  But  you  like  meat,  for  you  told  me  so." 
"  I  didn't  care  about  this,"  said  Peace,  look- 
mg  somewhat  restless. 


142  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Gypsy  looked  at  her  sharply,  then  stooped 
and  whispered  a  few  words  in  her  ear. 

"  No,"  said  Peace,  her  white  cheek  flushing 
crimson.  "  Oh,  no  ;  she  never  told  me  not  to. 
She  means  to  be  very  kind.  I  cost  her  a  great 
deal." 

* '  But  you  knew  she'd  be  glad  if  you  didn't 
eat  much,  and  that  was  the  reason  you  didn't," 
exclaimed  Gypsy,  angrily.  "  I  think  it's  abom 
inable  ! " 

"  Hush  !  please,  Gypsy." 

Gypsy  hushed.  Just  then  the  door  opened 
and  Miss  Jane  Maythorne,  Peace's  aunt,  came 
in.  She  was  a  tall,  thin,  sallow-faced  woman > 
with  angular  shoulders  and  a  sharp  chin.  She 
looked  like  a  New  England  woman  who  had 
worked  hard  all  her  life  and  had  much  trouble  ; 
so  much  that  she  thought  of  little  else  now,  but 
work  and  trouble  ;  who  had  a  heart  somewhere, 
but  was  apt  to  forget  all  about  it  except  on  great 
occasions. 


PEACE  MAYTHORNE'S  ROOM  145 

"  I've  been  talking  to  Peace  about  not  eating 
more,"  said  Gypsy,  when  she  had  introduced 
Joy,  and  said  good  afternoon.  "  She'll  die  if 
she  doesn't  eat  more  than  that,"  pointing  to  the 
plate. 

"  She  can  eat  all  she  wants,  as  far  as  I 
know,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  rather  shortly.  "  No 
body  ever  told  her  not  to.  It's  nothing  very 
fine  in  the  way  of  victuals  I  can  get  her,  work 
ing  as  I  work  for  two,  and  most  beat  out  every 
night.  La !  Peace,  you  haven't  eaten  your 
meat,  have  you?  Well,  I'll  warm  it  over  to 
morrow,  and  it'll  be  as  good  as  new." 

<  <  The  old  dragon  !  "  exclaimed  Gypsy,  under 
her  breath,  as  the  girls  went  out.  "  She  is  a 
dragon,  nothing  more  nor  less,  —  a  dragon  that 
doesn't  scold  particularly,  but  a  dragon  that 
looks.  I'd  rather  be  scolded  *o  death  than  looked 
at  and  looked  at  every  mouthful  I  eat.  I  don't 
wonder  Peace  doesn't  eat.  She'll  starve  to 
death  some  day." 


144  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  But  why  don't  you  send  her  down  things?'' 
asked  Joy.  Gypsy  shook  her  head. 

f '  You  don't  understand  Peace.  She  wouldn't 
like  it.  Mother  does  send  her  a  quantity  of 
books  and  flowers  and  things,  and  dinner  just 
as  often  as  she  can  without  making  Peace  feel 
badly.  But  Peace  wouldn't  like  'em  every 
day." 

"  She's  real  different  from  what  I  thought," 
said  Joy,   "real.     What  pretty  eyes  she  has 
I  didn't  seem  to  remember  she  was  poor,  a  bit.'1 

* '  What  made  you  come  down  ?  " 

"  'Cause,'1  said  Joy. 

This  excellent  reason  was  all  that  was  ever  to 
be  had  out  of  her.  But  that  first  time  was  by 
no  means  the  last  she  went  to  Peace  Maythorne's 
room. 

The  girls  were  in  good  spuits  that  night,  well 
pleased  with  each  other,  themselves,  and  every 
body  else,  as  is  usually  the  jase  when  one  is 
just  over  a  fit  of  ill  temper.  When  they  were 


PEACE  MAYTHOENE'S  ROOM.          145 

alone  in  bed,  Gypsy  told  Joy  about  the  verse  of 
which  Peace  spoke.     Joy  listened  in  silence. 

Awhile  after,  Gypsy  woke  from  a  dream,  and 
saw  a  light  burning  on  the  table.  Joy  was 
sitting  up  in  her  white  nisht-dress,  turning  the 
/eaves  of  a  BOOK  as  if  she  were  hunting  for 
something. 

10 


CHAPfKR  VTTI 

THE   STORY   OF   A  NIGHT. 

IVEMBER  with  its  bright,  bleak  skies, 
sere  leaves  tossing,  sad  winds  sobbing, 
and  rains  that  wept  for  days  and  nights 
together,  on  dead  flowers  and  dying 
grasses,  moaned  itself  away  at  last,  and  Decem 
ber  swept  into  its  place  with  a  good  rousing 
snow-storm,  merry  sleigh-bells,  and  bright 
promises  of  coming  Christmas.  The  girls 
coasted  and  skated,  and  made  snow-men  and 
snowballs  and  snow-forts.  Joy  learned  to 
slide  down  a  moderate  hill  at  a  mild  rate  without 
screaming,  and  to  get  along  somehow  on  her 
skates  alone,  —  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
146 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  147 

h 

Tom  wouldn't  help  her.  Gypsy  initiated  her 
into  the  mysteries  of  ' '  cannon-firing  "  from  the 
great  icy  forts,  and  taught  her  how  to  roll  the 
huge  balls  of  snow.  Altogether  they  had  a  very 
good  time.  Not  as  good  as  they  might  have 
had,  by  any  means  ;  the  old  rubs  and  jars  were 
there  still,  though  of  late  they  had  been  some 
what  softened.  Partly  on  account  of  their  talk 
with  Peace  ;  partly  because  of  a  certain  uncom 
fortable  acquaintance  called  conscience ;  partly 
because  of  their  own  good  sense,  the  girls  had 
tacitly  made  up  their  minds  at  least  to  make  an 
effort  to  live  together  more  happily.  In  some 
degree  they  succeeded,  but  they  were  like  people 
walking  over  a  volcano  :  the  trouble  was  not 
quenched ;  it  lay  always  smouldering  out  of 
sight,  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  flare  up 
into  angry  flame.  The  fault  lay  perhaps  no 
more  with  one  than  another.  Gypsy  had  never 
had  a  sister,  and  her  brothers  were  neither  of 
them  near  enough  to  her  own  age  to  interfere 


148  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

• 

very  much  with  her  wishes  and  privileges. 
Moreover,  a  brother,  though  he  may  be  the 
greatest  tease  in  existence,  is  apt  to  be  easier  to 
get  along  with  than  a  sister  about  one's  own 
age.  His  pleasures  and  ambitions  run  in  dif 
ferent  directions  from  the  girls' ;  there  is  less 
clashing  of  interests.  Besides  this,  Gypsy's 
playmates  in  Yorkbury,  as  has  been  said,  had 
not  chanced  to  be  girls  of  very  strong  wills. 
Quite  to  her  surprise,  since  Joy  had  been  her 
room-mate  and  constant  companion,  had  she 
found  out  that  she  —  Gypsy  —  had  been  pretty 
well  used  to  having  her  own  way,  and  that 
other  people  sometimes  liked  to  have  theirs. 

As  for  Joy,  she  had  always  been  an  only 
child,  and  that  tells  a  history.  Of  the  two 
perhaps  she  had  the  more  to  learn.  The  simple 
fact  that  she  was  brought  wisely  and  kindly,  but 
thoroughly,  under  Mrs.  JBreynton's  control,  was 
decidedly  a  revelation  to  her.  At  her  own 
home,  it  had  always  been  said,  from  the  time 


THE   STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  149 

she  was  a  baby,  that  her  mother  could  not 
manage  her,  and  her  father  would  not.  She 
rebelled  a  little  at  first  against  her  aunt's  author 
ity,  but  she  was  fast  learning  to  love  her,  and 
when  we  love,  obedience  ceases  to  be  obedience, 
and  becomes  an  offering  freely  given. 

A  little  thing  happened  one  day,  showing  that 
sadder  and  better  side  of  Joy's  heart  that  always 
seemed  to  touch  Gypsy. 

They  had  been  having  some  little  trouble 
about  the  lessons  at  school ;  it  just  verged  on  a 
quarrel,  and  slided  off,  and  they  had  treated 
each  other  pleasantly  after  it.  At  night  Joy 
was  sitting  up-stairs  writing  a  letter  to  her 
father,  when  a  gust  of  wind  took  the  sheet  and 
blew  it  to  Gypsy's  feet.  Gypsy  picked  it  up  to 
carry  it  to  her,  and  in  doing  so,  her  eyes  fell 
accidentally  on  some  large,  legible  wen's  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page.  She  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  reading  them,  but  their  meaning 
came  to  her  against  her  will,  in  that  curious 


150  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

way  we  see  things  in  a  flash,  sometimes.  This 
was  what  she  saw  : 

"  I  like  auntie  ever  so  much,  and  Tom. 
Gypsy  was  cross  this  morning.  She  — "  and 
then  followed  Joy's  own  version  of  the  morn 
ing's  dispute.  Gypsy  was  vexed.  She  liked 
her  uncle,  and  she  did  not  like  to  have  him  hear 
such  one-sided  stories  of  her,  and  judge  her  as 
he  would. 

She  walked  over  to  Joy  with  very  red  cheeks. 

"  Here's  your  letter.  I  tried  not  to  read  it, 
but  I  couldn't  help  seeing  that  about  me.  I 
don't  think  you've  any  business  to  tell  him  about 
me  unless  you  can  tell  the  truth." 

Of  course  Joy  resented  such  a  remark  as 
this,  and  high  words  followed.  They  went 
down  tc  supper  sulkily,  and  said  nothing  to  one 
another  for  an  hour.  After  tea,  Joy  crept  up 
moodily  into  the  corner,  and  Gypsy  sat  down 
on  the  cricket  for  one  of  her  merry  talks  with 
her  mother.  After  ehe  had  told  her  how  many 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  151 

times  she  missed  at  school  that  day,  what  a 
funny  tumble  Sarah  Rowe  had  on  the  ice,  and 
laughed  over  "Winnie's  Latest"  till  she  was 
laughed  out  and  talked  out  too,  she  sprang  into 
her  lap,  in  one  of  Gypsy's  sudden  outbursts  of 
affection,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck, 
and  kissing  her  on  cheeks,  forehead,  lips,  and 
chin. 

"  O-oh,  what  a  blessed  little  mother  you  are  ! 
What  should  I  do  without  you  ?  " 

"  Mother's  darling  daughter  !  What  should 
she  do  without  you?"  said  Mrs.  Breynton, 
softly. 

But  not  softly  enough.  Gypsy  looked  up 
suddenly  and  saw  a  pale  face  peering  out  at 
them  from  behind  the  curtain,  its  great  eyes 
swimming  in  tears,  its  lips  quivering.  The 
next  minute  Joy  left  the  room. 

There  was  something  dim  in  Gypsy's  eyes  aa 
she  hurried  after  her.  She  found  her  crouched 
up-stairs  in  the  dark  and  cold,  sobbing  as  if 


152  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

her  heart  would  break.  Gypsy  put  her  arm 
around  her. 

66  Kiss  me,  Joy." 

Joy  kissed  her,  and  that  was  all  that  was 
said.  But  it  ended  in  Gypsy's  bringing  her 
triumphantly  down-stairs,  where  were  the  lights 
and  the  fire,  and  the  pleasant  room,  and  another 
cricket  waiting  at  Mrs.  Breyn ton's  feet. 

They  were  very  busy  after  this,  with  the 
coming  Christmas.  Joy  confidently  expected  a 
five-dollar  bill  from  her  father,  and  Gypsy  cher 
ished  faint  aspirations  after  a  portfolio  with 
purple  roses  on  it.  But  most  of  their  thoughts, 
and  all  their  energies,  were  occupied  with  the 
little  gifts  they  intended  to  make  themselves ; 
and  herein  lay  a  difficulty.  Joy's  father  always 
supplied  her  bountifully  with  spending  money  ; 
Gypsy's  stock  was  small.  When  Joy  wanted 
to  make  a  present,  she  had  only  to  ask  for  a  few 
extra  dollars,  and  she  had  them.  Gypsy 
always  felt  as  if  a  present  given  in  that  way 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  153 

were  no  present ;  unless  a  thing  cost  her  some 
self-denial,  or  some  labor,  she  reasoned,  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her.  If  given  directly  out 
of  her  father's  pocket,  it  was  his  gift,  not  hers. 

But  then,  how  much  handsomer  Joy's  things 
would  be. 

Thus  Gypsy  was  thinking,  in  her  secret  heart, 
over  and  over ;  how  could  she  help  it  ?  And 
Joy,  perhaps  —  possibly — Joy  was  thinking 
the  same  thing,  with  a  spice  of  pleasure  in  the 
thought. 

It  was  about  her  mother  that  Gypsy  was  chiefly 
troubled.  Tom  had  condescendingly  informed 
her  about  six  months  ago,  that  he'd  just  as  lief  she 
would  make  him  a  watch-case  if  she  wanted  to 
very  much  ;  girls  always  would  jump  at  the  chance 
to  get  up  any  such  nonsense,  — -  be  sure  she  did  it 
up  in  style,  with  gold  and  silver  tape,  and  some 
of  your  blue  alpacca.  (Tom's  conceptions  of  the 
feminine  race,  their  apparel,  occupations,  and  im 
plements,  were  bounded  by  tape  and  alpacca.) 


154  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

So  Tom  was  provided  for ;  the  watch-case  was 
nearly  made,  and  bade  fair  to  be  quite  as  pretty 
as  anything  Joy  could  buy.  Winnie  was  easily 
suited,  and  her  father  would  be  as  contented 
with  a  shaving-case  as  with  a  velvet  dressing- 
gown  ;  indeed  he'd  hardly  know  the  difference. 
Joy  should  have  a  pretty  white  velvet  hair- 
ribbon.  But  what  for  her  mother?  She  lay 
•iwake  a  whole  half  hour  one  night,  perplexing 
herself  over  the  question,  and  at  last  decided 
rather  falteringly  on  a  photograph-frame  of 
shell-work.  Gypsy's  shell-work  was  always 
pretty,  and  her  mother  had  a  peculiar  fancy  for 
it. 

"I  shall  give  her  Whittier's  poems,"  said 
Joy,  in  —  perhaps  unconsciously,  perhaps  not — 
a  rather  triumphant  tone.  "I  heard  her  say 
the  other  day  she  wanted  them  ever  so  much. 
I'm  going  to  get  the  best  copy  I  can  find,  with 
gold  edges.  If  uncle  hasn't  a  nice  one  in  his 
store,  I'll  send  to  Boston.  Mr.  Ticknoi  '11  pick 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT. 

me  out  the  best  one  he  has,  I  know,  'cause  he 
knows  father  real  well,  and  we  buy  lots  of  things 
there." 

Gypsy  said  nothing.  She  was  rather  abashed 
to  hear  Joy  talk  in  such  familiar  terms  of  Mr. 
Ticknor.  She  was  more  uneasy  that  Joy 
should  give  so  handsome  a  present.  She  sat 
looking  at  her  silently,  and  while  she  looked,  a 
curious,  dull,  sickening  pain  crept  into  her 
heart.  It  frightened  her,  and  she  ran  away 
down-stairs  to  get  rid  of  it. 

A  few  days  after,  she  was  sitting  alone  work 
ing  on  the  photograph-case.  It  was  rather 
pretty  work,  though  not  over-clean.  She  had 
cut  a  well-shaped  frame  out  of  pasteboard,  with 
a  long,  narrow  piece  bent  back  to  serve  as  sup 
port.  The  frame  was  covered  with  putty,  and 
into  the  putty  she  fastened  her  shells.  They 
were  of  different  sizes,  shapes,  and  colors,  and 
she  was  laying  them  on  in  a  pretty  pattern  of 
etars  and  crescents.  She  had  just  stopped  to 


15(?  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

look  at  her  work,  her  red  lips  shut  togethei 
with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  and  her  head  on 
one  side,  like  a  canary,  when  Joy  came  in. 

"  Just  look  here!"  and  she  held  up  before 
her  astonished  eyes  a  handsome  volume  of  blue 
and  gold,  —  Whittier's  poems,  and  written  on 
the  fly-leaf,  in  Joy's  very  best  copy-book  hand, 
"For  Auntie,  with  a  Merry  Christmas  from 
Joy." 

"  Uncle  sent  to  Boston  for  me,  and  got  it, 
and  he  promised  on  his  word  'n  honor,  certain 
true,  black  and  blue,  he  wouldn't  let  Auntie 
know  a  single  sign  of  a  thing  about  it.  Isn't 
it  splendid?" 

"  Ye-es,"  said  Gypsy,  slowly. 
"Well!    I   don't   think   you   seem   to  care 
much." 

Gypsy  looked  at  her  shell-work,  and  said 
nothing.  For  the  second  time  that  dull,  curious 
pain  had  crept  into  her  heart.  What  did  it 
mean  ?  Was  it  possible  that  she  was  envion. 
of  Joy  ?  Was  it  possible  ? 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  157 

The  hot  crimson  rushed  to  Gypsy's  cheeks  for 
Bhame  at  the  thought.  But  the  thought  waa 
there. 

She  chanced  to  be  in  Peace  Maythorne's  room 
one  day  when  the  bustle  of  preparation  for  the 
holidays  was  busiest.  Peace  hid  something 
under  the  counterpane  as  she  came  in,  flushing 
a  little.  Gypsy  sat  down  in  her  favorite  place 
on  the  bed,  just  where  she  could  see  the  cripple's 
great  quiet  eyes,  —  she  always  liked  to  watch 
Peace  Maythorne's  eyes, — and  in  doing  so, 
disturbed  the  bedclothes.  A  piece  of  work  fei" 
out;  plain,  fine  sewing,  in  which  the  needle  lay 
with  a  stitch  partially  taken. 

"  Peace  Maythorne  !  "  said  Gypsy,  "  you've 
been  doing  it  again  !  " 

"  A  little,  just  to  help  aunt,  you  know.  A 
little  doesn't  hurt  me,  Gypsy." 

"  Doesn't  hurt  you!  Peace,  you  know 
better.  You  know  you  never  sew  a  stitch  but 
you  lie  awake  half  the  night  after  it  with  the 


158  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Peace  did  not  contradict  her.  She  could 
not. 

"  Help  your  aunt !  "  Gypsy  went  on  vehe 
mently  ;  "  she  oughtn't  to  let  you  touch  it.  She 
hasn't  any  more  feeling  than  a  stone  wall,  nor 
half  as  much,  I  say  !  " 

"Hush,  Gypsy!  Don't  say  that.  Indeed 
I'd  rather  have  the  pain,  and  help  her  a  little, 
once  in  a  while,  when  my  best  days  come  and  I 
can  ;  I  had,  really,  Gypsy.  You  don't  know 
how  it  hurts  me  —  a  great  deal  more  than  this 
other  hurt  in  my  back  —  to  lie  here  and  let  her 
support  me,  and  I  not  do  a  thing.  O  Gypsy, 
you  don't  know  I  " 

Something  in  Peace  Maythorne's  tone  just 
then,  made  Gypsy  feel  worse  than  she  felt  to  see 
her  sew.  She  was  silent  a  minute,  turning 
away  her  face. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  don't.  But  I  say  I'd  as 
lie*  have  a  stone  wall  for  an  aunt ;  no,  I  will 
eay  it  Peace,  and  you  needn't  look  at  me. 


THE    STORY    OF   A    NIGHT.  159 

Peace  locked,  notwithstanding,  and  Gypsy 
stopped  saying  it. 

"  Sometimes  I've  thought,"  said  Peace,  after 
a  pause,  "  I  might  earn  a  little  crocheting. 
Once,  long  ago,  I  made  a  mat  out  of  ends  of 
worsted  I  found,  and  it  didn't  hurt  me  hardly 
.any  ;  on  my  good  days  it  wouldn't  honestly  hurt 
me  at  all.  It's  pretty  work  crocheting,  isn't 
it?" 

< «  Why  don't  you  crochet,  then  ?  "  said  Gypsy, 
"  if  you  must  do  anything.  It's  ten  thousand 
times  easier  than  this  sewing  you're  killing  your 
self  over." 

"I've  no  worsteds,  you  know,"  said  Peace, 
coloring ;  and  changed  the  subject  at  once. 

Gypsy  looked  thoughtful.  Very  soon  after, 
she  bade  Peace  good-by,  and  went  home. 

That  night  she  called  her  mother  away  alone, 
and  told  her  what  Peace  had  said. 

"  Now,  mother,  I've  thought  out  an  idea." 

"Well?" 


160 

"  You  mustn't  say  no,  if  I  tell  you." 

"  I'll  try  not  to  ;  if  it  is  a  sensible  idea." 

' '  Do  I  ever  have  an  idea  that  isn't  sensible  ?  " 
said  Gypsy,  demurely.  "  I  prefer  not  to  be 
slandered  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Breynton." 

"  Well,  but  what's  the  idea?  " 

"  It's  just  this.  Miss  Jane  Maythorne  is  a 
heathen." 

"  Is  that  all?" 

"  No.  But  Miss  Jane  Maythorne  is  a 
heathen,  and  ought  to  cut  off  her  head  beforn 
she  lets  Peace  sew.  But  you  see  she  doesn't 
know  she's  a  heathen,  and  Peace  will  sew." 

44  Well,  what  then?" 

*  *  If  she  will  do  something,  and  won't  be 
happy  without,  then  I  can't  help  it,  you  see. 
But  I  can  give  her  some  worsteds  for  a  Christ 
mas  present,  and  she  can  make  little  mats  and 
things,  and  you  can  buy  them.  Now,  mother, 
isn't  that  nice  ?  " 

"  Yes,1'  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  after  a  moment's 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  161 

thought,  "  it  is  a  very  good  plan.  I  think  Joy 
would  lik?  to  join  you.  Together,  you  can 
make  quite  a  handsome  present  out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  want  Joy  to  know  a  thing  about  it," 
said  Gypsy,  with  a  decision  in  her  voice  that 
amounted  almost  to  anger. 
"Why,  Gypsy!" 

"No,  not  a  thing.  She  just  takes  her 
father's  money,  and  gives  lots  of  splendid  pres 
ents,  and  makes  me  ashamed  of  all  mine,  and 
she's  glad  of  it,  too.  If  I'm  going  to  give  any 
thing  to  Peace,  I  don't  want  her  to." 

« '  I  think  Joy  has  taken  a  great  faijcy  to 
Peace.  She  would  enjoy  giving  her  something 
very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Breynton,  gravely. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  Peace  Maythorne  belongs 
to  me.  It  would  spoil  it  all  to  have  Joy  have 
anything  to  do  with  it." 

"  Worsteds  are  very  expensive  now,"  said  her 
mother  ;  « '  you  alone  cannot  give  Peace  enough 
to  amount  to  much." 
14* 


162  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

66 1  don't  care,"  said  Gypsy,  resolutely,  "  I 
want  to  do  one  thing  Joy  doesn't." 

Mrs.  Breynton  said  nothing,  and  Gypsy  went 
slowly  from  the  room. 

"I  wish  we  could  give  Peace  Maythorne 
something,"  said  Joy,  an  hour  after,  when  they 
were  all  sitting  together.  Mrs.  Breynton  raised 
her  eyes  from  her  work,  but  Gypsy  was  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

When  the  girls  went  up  to  bed,  Gypsy  was 
very  silent.  Joy  tried  to  laugh  and  plague  and 
scold  her  into  talking,  but  it  was  of  no  use. 
Just  before  they  went  to  sleep,  she  spoke  up 
suddenly, — 

"Joy,  do  you  want  to  give  something  to 
Peace  Maythorne  ?  " 

"Splendid!"  cried  Joy,  jumping  up  in  bed 
to  clap  her  hands,  "  what?  " 

Gypsy  told  her  then  all  the  plan,  a  little 
Blowly  ;  it  was  rather  hard. 

Perhaps   Joy  detected  the   hesitation  in  her 


THE    STORY    OF  A   NIGHT.  163 

tone.  Joy  was  not  given  to  detecting  things 
with  remarkable  quickness,  but  it  was  so  plain 
she  could  not  very  well  help  it. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  want  me  to  give  any 
of  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gypsy,  trying  to  speak  cor 
dially,  "  yes,  it  will  be  better." 

It  certainly  was  better  she  felt.  She  went  to 
sleep,  glad  it  was  settled  so. 

When  the  girls  came  to  make  their  purchases, 
they  found  that  Gypsy's  contribution  of  money 
would  just  about  buy  the  crochet-needles  and 
patterns.  The  worsteds  cost  about  treble  what 
she  could  give.  So  it  was  settled  that  they 
should  be  Joy's  gift. 

Gypsy  was  very  pleasant  about  it,  but  Joy 
could  not  help  seeing  that  she  was  disappointed. 
So  then  there  came  a  little  generous  impulse  to 
'Joy  too ,  and  she  came  one  day  and  said  — 

"  Gypsy,  don't  let's  divide  the  things  off  so, 
for  Peace.  It  makes  my  part  the  largest.  Be- 


164  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

sides,   the   worsteds   look  the  prettiest.     Let's 
just  give  them  together  and  have  it  all  one." 

There  is  a  rare  pleasure  in  making  a  gift 
one's  self,  without  being  hampered  by  this  * '  all- 
together  "  notion,  isn't  there?  —  especially  if 
the  gift  be  a  handsome  one,  and  is  going  where 
it  is  very  much  needed.  So  as  Joy  sat  fingering 
the  pile  of  elegant  worsteds,  twining  the  bril 
liant,  soft  folds  of  orange,  and  crimson,  and 
royal  purple,  and  soft,-  wood-browns  about  her 
hands,  it  cost  her  a  bit  of  a  struggle  to  say  this. 
It  seems  rather  a  small  thing  to  write  about  ? 
Ah,  they  are  thes«3  bits  of  struggles  in  which  we 
learn  to  fight  the  great  ones ;  perhaps  these  bits 
of  struggles,  more  than  the  great  ones,  make  up 
life. 

"  You're  real  good,"  said  Gypsy,  surprised  ; 
"I  think  I'd  rather  not.  It  isn't  really  half 
of  it  mine,  and  I  don't  want  to  say  so.  But  it's 
just  as  good  in  you." 

At   that   moment,    though   neither   of  them 


THE   STORY  OF  A  NIGHT.  165 

knew  it  was  so.  one  thought  was  in  the  heart  of 
both.  It  was  a  sudden  thought  that  came  and 
went,  and  left  a  great  happiness  in  its  place 
(for  great  happiness  springs  out  of  very  little 
battles  and  victories) , —  a  memory  of  Peace 
Maythorne's  verse.  The  good  Christmas  time 
would  have  been  a  golden  time  to  them,  if  it 
taught  them  in  ever  so  small,  imperfect  ways, 
to  prefer  one  another  "  in  honor." 

One  day  before  it  came,  a  sudden  notion 
seemed  to  strike  Gypsy,  and  she  rushed  out  of 
the  house  in  her  characteristic  style,  as  if  she 
were  running  for  her  life,  and  down  to  Peace 
Maythorne's,  and  flew  into  the  quiet  room  like 
a  tempest. 

"Peace  Maythorne,  what's  your  favorite 
verse?" 

"  Why,  what  a  hurry  you're  in  !  Sit  down 
and  rest  a  minute." 

"No,  I  can't  stop.  I  just  want  to  know 
what  your  favorite  verse  is,  as  quick  as  ever  you 
can  be." 


166  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

*  *  Did  }  ou  come  down  just  for  that  ?  How 
queer  !  Well,  let  me  see." 

Peace  stopped  a  minute,  her  quiet  eyes  look 
ing  off  through  the  window,  but  seeming  to  see 
nothing, —  away  somewhere,  Gypsy,  even  in  her 
hurry  stopped  to  wonder  where. 

' '  I  think  —  it  isn't  one  you'd  care  much 
about,  perhaps  —  I  think  I  like  this.  Yes,  I 
think  I  can't  help  liking  it  best  of  all." 

Peace  touched  her  finger  to  a  page  of -her 
Bible  that  lay  open.  Gypsy,  bending  over, 
read :  — 

1 '  And  the  inhabitant  shall  not  say  I  am 
eick." 

When  she  had  .read,  she  stooped  and  kissed 
Peace  with  a  sudden  kiss. 

From  that  time  until  Christmas,  Gypsy  was 
very  busy  in  her  own  room  with  her  paint-box,  all 
the  spare  time  she  could  find.  On  Christmas  Eve 
she  wont  down  just  after  dusk  to  Peace  May- 
thorne's  room,  and  called  Miss  Jane  out  into  the 


THE    STORY    OF   A   NIGHT.  167 

«  This  is  for  Peace,  and  I  made  it.  I  don't 
want  her  to  see  a  thing  about  it  till  she  wake's 
up  in  the  morning.  Could  you  please  to  fasten 
it  up  on  the  wall  just  opposite  the  bed  where 
the  sun  shines  in?  sometime  after  she's  gone  to 
sleep,  you  know." 

Miss  Jane,  somewhat  bewildered,  took  the 
thing  that  Gypsy  held  out  to  her,  and  held  it  up 
in  the  light  that  fell  from  a  neighbor's  half-open 
door. 

It  was  a  large  illuminated  text,  painted  on  ' 
Bristol  board  of  a  soft  grey  shade,  and  very 
well  done  for  a  non-professional  artist.  The 
letters  were  of  that  exquisite  shade  known  by 
artists  as  smalt  blue,  edged  heavily  with  gold, 
and  around  them  a  border  of  yellow,  delicate 
sprays  of  wheat.  Miss  Jane  spelled  out  in  the 
German  text  :  — 


««  &ntr  tfce  Entmfcttant  sfmll  not  sag  X  am 
«<  Well,  thank  you.     I'll  put  it  up.     Peace 


168  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

never  gets  to  sleep  till  terrible  late,  and  I'm 
father  wore  out  with  work  to  lie  awake  waitin' 
till  she  is.  But  then,  if  you  want  to  surprise 
her  —  I  s'pose  she  will  be  dreadful  tickled,  — I 
guess  I'll  manage  it  some  ways." 

Perhaps  Miss  Jane  was  softened  into  being 
obliging  by  her  coming  holiday  ;  or  perhaps  the 
mournful,  longing  words  touched  something  in 
her  that  nothing  touched  very  often. 

Gypsy  and  Joy  were  not  so  old  but  that 
Christmas  Eve  with  its  little  plans  for  the  mor 
row  held  yet  a  certain  shade  of  that  delightful 
suspense  and  mystery  which  perhaps  never  hangs 
about  the  greater  and  graver  joys  of  life.  I 
fancy  we  drink  it  to  the  full,  in  the  hanging  up 
of  stockings,  the  peering  out  into  the  dark  to 
see  Santa  Glaus  come  down  the  chimney  (per 
fectly  conscious  that  that  gentleman  is  the  most 
transparent  of  hoaxes,  but  with  a  sort  of  faith 
in  him  all  the  while ;  we  may  see  him  if  we  can 
lie  awake  long  enough, — who  knows?)  the 


THE    STORY    OF   A   NIGHT. 

falling   asleep  before   we   know   it,   and  much 

ao-ainst  )ur  will,  the  waking  in  the  cold,  gray, 

• 
mysterious  dawn,  and  pattering  about  barefoot 

to  "  catch"  the  dreaming  and  defenceless  fam 
ily- 

"  I'm  going  to  lie  awake  all  night,"  Gypsy 

announced,  as  she  stood  brushing  out  her  bright, 
'  black  hair;   "  then  I'll  catch  you,  you  see  if  I 
don't." 

4i  But  I'm  going  to  lie  awake,  too,"  said  Joy. 
I  was  going  to  last  Christmas,  only  —  I  didn't." 

"  Sit  up  and  see  the  sun  dance,  like  Patty." 

"  Well,  let's.     I  never  was  awake  all  night 
in  my  whole  life." 

><  Nor  I,"  said  Gypsy.  "  I  came  pretty  near 
it  once,  but  I  somehow  went  to  sleep  along  at 

the  end." 

"When  was  that?" 

"Why,  one  time  I  had  a  dream,  and  went 
clear  over  to  the  Kleiner  Berg  Basin  in  my 
bleep,  and  got  into  the  boat." 


170  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  You  did!" 

"  I  guess  I  did.     The  boat  was  unlocked  ana 

• 

the  oars  were  up  at  the  barn,  and  so  I  floated 
off,  and  there  I  had  to  stay  till  Tom  came  in  the 
morning." 

"  Why,  I  should  have  been  scared  out  of  my 
seventeen  senses,"  said  Joy,  creeping  into  bed  ; 
"  didn't  you  scream  ?  " 

"No.  That  wouldn't  have  done  any  good. 
See  here,  Joy ;  if  you  find  me  going  to  sleep, 
pinch  me,  will  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Joy,  with  alacrity.  "I 
shall  be  awake,  I  know." 

There  was  a  silence.  Gypsy  broke  it  by 
turning  her  head  over  on  the  pillow  with  a 
whisk,  and  opening  her  eyes  savagely,  quite 
indignant  to  find  them  shut. 

"Joy." 

No  answer. 

"  Joy,  you're  going  — " 

Joy's  head  turned  over  with  another  whisk. 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT  171 

"No,  I'm  not.     I'm  just  as  wide  awake  as 
ever  I  was." 

Another  silence. 
"Gypsy!" 
Gypsy  jumped. 
61  You're  going  to  sleep." 
"  It  isn't  any  such  a  thing,"  said  Gypsy,  sit 
ting  up  and  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"I  wonder  if  it  isn't  most  morning,"  said 
Joy,  in  a  tone  of  cheerful  indifference. 

"  Most  morning  !     Mother  'd  say  we'd  been 
in  bed  just  ten  minutes,  I  suppose." 

Joy  stifled  a  groan,   and   by  dint  of  great 
exertions,  turned  it  into  a  laugh. 

"All  the   longer   to  lie   awake.     It's  nice, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Ye-es.     Let's  talk.     People  that  sit  up  all 
night  talk,  I  guess." 

"Well,  I  guess  it  would  be  a  good  plan, 
You  begin.1" 

* '  I  don't  know  anything  to  say ." 


172  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

1 <  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't." 
Silence  again. 
"  Joy  Breynton." 
"  We-ell?" 

"  I  guess  I'll  keep  awake  just  as  well  if  I  - 
shut  up  —  my  eyes.     Don't  you  —  " 

That  was  the  end  of  Gypsy's  sentence,  and 
Joy  never  asked  for  the  rest  of  it.     Just  about 
an  hour  and  a  half  after,  Gypsy  heard  a  noise, 
and  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  Joy  standin^ 
up  with  her  head  in  the  wash-bowl. 
' '  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 
"  Oh,  just  dipping  my  head  into  the  water. 
They  say  it  helps  keep  people  awake." 

"Oh  —  well.     See  here;  we  haven't  talked 
much  lately,  have  we?" 

"  No.     I  thought  I  wouldn't  disturb  you." 
Gypsy  made  a  ghastly  attempt  to  answer,  but 
couldn't  quite  do  it. 

At  the  end  of  another  indefinite  period,  Joj, 
opened  her  eyes  under  the  remarkable  impression 


THE    STORY    OF   A    NIGHT.  173 

that  Oliver  Cromwell  was  carrying  her  to  the 
guillotine  in  a  cocoa-nut  shell ;  it  was  really  a 
very  remarkable  impression,  considering  that  she 
had  been  broad  awake  ever  since  she  came  to  bed. 
As  soon  as  her  eyes  were  open,  she  opened  her 
mouth  likewise  —  to  gasp  out  a  little  scream. 
For  something  very  tall  and  white  was  sitting 
,  up  on  the  bed-post  with  folded  arms. 

"  Why  Gypsy  Breynton  !  " 

"What?" 

« '  What  are  you  up  there  for  ?  " 

"  Grot  up  so  's  to  keep  awake.  It's  real 
fan." 

"Why,  how  your  teeth  chatter.  Isn't  it 
cold  up  there  ?  " 

"  Ra-ther.  I  don't  know  but  I  might  as  well 
come  down." 

"  I  wonder,"  muttered  Gypsy,  drowsily,  just 

as  Joy  had  begun  in  very  thrilling  words  to 

request  Oliver  Cromwell  to  have  mercy  on  he/ , 

arid  was   about  preparing   to  jump  out  of  the 

15* 


174  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

• 

cocoa-nut  shell  into  Niagara  Falls,  "  I  wonder 
what  makes  people  think  it's  a  joke  to  lie 
awake." 

"I  don't  believe  they  do,"  said  Joy,  with  a 
tinge  in  her  voice  of  something  that,  to  say  the 
least,  was  not  hilarious. 

"  Yes  they  do,"  persisted  Gypsy;  "all  the 
girls  in  novels  lie  awake  all  night  and  cry  when 
their  lovers  go  to  Europe,  and  they  have  a  real 
nice  time.  Only  it's  most  always  moonlight, 
and  they  talk  out  loud.  I  always  thought  when 
I  got  large  enough  to  have  a  lover,  I'd  try  it.'" 

Joy  dropped  into  another  dream,  and,  though 
not  of  interest  to  the  public,  it  was  a  very 
charming  dream,  and  she  felt  decidedly  cross, 
when,  at  the  end  of  another  unknown  period, 
Gypsy  woke  her  up  with  a  pinch. 

"  Merry  Christmas  !'  Merry  Christmas  !  " 

* « What  are  you  merry  Christmassing  for  ? 
That's  no  fair.  It  isn't  morning  yet.  Let  me 
alone."  •  . 


THE   STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  175 

"  Yes,  it  is  morning  too.  I  heard  the  clock 
strike  six  ever  so  long  ago.  Get  up  and  build 
the  fire." 

"I   don't   believe   it's   morning.      You  can 

build  it  yourself." 

"No,  it's  your  week.  Besides,  you  made 
me  do  it  twice  for  you  your  last  turn,  and  I 
shan't  touch  it.  Besides,  it  is  morning." 

Joy  rose  with  a  groan,  and  began  to  fumble 
for  the  matches.     All  at  once  Gypsy  heard  a 
a  very  fervent  exclamation. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"The  old  thing's  tipped  over, — every  sin 
gle,  solitary  match  ! " 
Gypsy  began  to  laugh. 

"  It's  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  chattered  Joy ; 
"  I'm  frozen  almost  to  death,  and  this  horrid  old 
fire  won't  do  a  thing  but  smoke." 

Gypsy,  curled  up  in  the  warm  bed,  smoth 
ered  her  laugh  as  best  she  could,  to  see  Joy 
crouched  shivering  before  the  stove-doer,  blow- 


176 

ing  away  frantically  at  the  fire,  her  cheeks 
puffed  out,  her  hands  blue  as  indigo. 

"  There  !  "  said  Joy,  at  last ;  "  I  shan't  work 
any  more  over  it.  It  may  go  out  if  it  wants 
to,  and  if  it  don't  it  needn't." 

She  came  back  to  bed,  and  the  fire  muttered 
and  sputtered  a  while,  and  died  out,  and  shot 
up  again,  and  at  last  made  up  its  mind  to  burn, 
and  burned  like  a  small  volcano. 

' '  What  a  noise  that  fire  makes  !  I  hope  it 
won't  wake  up  mother.  Joy,  doesn't  it  strike 
you  as  rather  funny  it  doesn't  grow  light 
faster?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

4 '  Get  up  and  look  at  the  entry  clock ;  you're 
on  the  front  side." 

Poor  Joy  jumped  out  shivering  into  the  cold 
again,  opened  the  door  softly,  and  ran  out. 
She  came  back  in  somewhat  of  a  hurry,  and 
ehut  the  door  with  a  bang. 

* ;  Gypsy  BreyntoD  I  " 


THE    STORY    OF   A   NIGHT.  177 

"  What?" 

"  If  I  ever  forgive  you  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Itisjiist  twenty-jive  minutes  past  eleven  /" 

Gypsy  broke  into  a  ringing  laugh.  Joy 
could  never  bear  to  be  laughed  at. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  so  terribly  funny,  and 
I  guess  you  wouldn't  if  you'd  made  that  old  — " 

"Fire;  I  know  it.  Just  to  think! — and 
you  shivering  and  blowing  away  at  it.  I  never 
heard  anything  so  funny  !  " 

* '  I  think  it  was  real  mean  in  you  to  wake  me 
up,  any  way." 

«  Why,  I  thought  I  heard  it  strike  six  as 
much  as  could  be.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  clear  !  " 

Joy  couldn't  see  the  joke.  But  the  story  of 
that  memorable  night  was  not  yet  finished. 

The  faint,  gray  morning  really  came  at  last, 
and  the  girls  awoke  in  good  earnest,  ready  and 
glad  to  get  up. 

4 '  I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  pulled  through  a  knot- 
hole,"  said  Joy. 


178  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  1  slept  with  one  eye  open  all  the  time  I  did 
sleep,"  said  Gypsy,  drearily.  "I  know  one 
thing.  I'll  never  try  to  lie  awake  again  as  long 
as  I  live.*' 

*  *  Not  when  you  have  a  lover  go  to  Europe  ?  ?> 

'  '  Not  if  I  have  a  dozen  lovers  go  to  Europe. 
How  is  that  fire  going  to  be  built,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  —  every  stick  of  wood  burned  out  last 
night." 

There  was  no  way  but  to  go  down  into  the 
wood-shed  and  get  some.  It  was  yet  early,  and 
quite  dark. 

"  Go  the  back  stairs,"  said  Gypsy,  "  so  's 
not  to  wake  people  up." 

Joy  opened  the  door,  and  jumped,  with  & 
scream  that  echoed  through  the  silent  entry. 

<  '  Hush-sh  !     What  is  the  matter  ?  " 


"A  —  a  —  it's  ^  ghost!" 


"  A  ghost  !     Nonsense  !  " 

Gypsy  pushed  by  trembling  Joy  and  ran  out. 
She,  too,  came  back  with  a  jump,  and,  though 
she  did  not  scream,  she  did  not  say  nonsense. 


THE    STORY   OF  A   NIGHT.  179 

"What  can  it  be?" 

It  certainly  did  look  amazingly  like  a  ghost. 
Something  tall  and  white  and  ghastly,  with 
awful  arm  extended.  The  entry  was  very  dark. 

Joy  sprang  into  bed  and  covered  up  her  face 
in  the  clothes.  Gypsy  stood  still  and  winked 
fast  for  about  a  minute.  Then  Joy  heard  a  fall 
and  a  bubbling  laugh. 

61  That  old  Tom  !  It's  nothing  but  a  broom- 
handle  and  a  sheet.  Oh,  Joy,  just  come  and 
eee ! " 

After  that,  Joy  declared  she  wouldn't  go  to 
the  wood-shed  alone,  if  she  dressed  without  a 
fire  the  rest  of  her  life.  So  Gypsy  started  with 
her,  and  they  crept  down  stairs  on  tiptoe,  hold 
ing  their  very  breath  in  their  efforts  to  be  still, 
the  stairs  creaking  at  every  step.  Did  you  eier 
particularly  want  stairs  to  keep  still,  that  they 
didn't  creak  like  thunder-claps  ? 

The  girls  managed  to  get  into  the  wood-shed, 
fill  ;heir  basket,  and  steal  bacV  into  the  kitchen 


180  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

without  mishap.  Then  came  the  somewhat 
dubious  undertaking  of  crawling  up-stairs  in 
darkness  that  might  be  felt,  with  a  heavy  and 
decidedly  uncertain  load  of  wood. 

"  I'll  go  first  and  carry  the  basket,"  said 
Gypsy.  "  One  can  do  it  easier  than  two." 

So  she  began  to  feel  her  way  slowly  up. 

"  It's  black  as  Egypt !  Joy,  why  don't  you 
come?" 

* '  I'm  caught  on  something  —  oh  !  "  Down 
fell  something  with  an  awrful  crash  that  echoed 
and  reechoed,  and  resounded  through  the  sleep 
ing  house.  It  was  succeeded  by  an  utter  si 
lence. 

"  What  is  it?  "  breathed  Gypsy,  faintly. 

"  The  clothes-horse,  and  every  one  of  Patty's 
clean  clothe: !" 

Scarcely  were  the  words  off  from  Joy's  lips, 
wrhen  Gypsy,  sitting  down  on  the  stairs  to 
laugh,  tipped  over  her  basket,  and  every  solitary 
stick  of  that  wood  clattered  down  the  uncarpeted 


THE    STORY    OF   A   NIGHT.  181 

stairs,  thumped  through  the  banisters,  bounced 
on  the  floor,  rolled  into  the  corners,  thundered 
against  the  cellar  door.  I  don't  believe  you 
ever  beard  such  a  noise  in  all  your  life. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Breynton  ran  from  one  direc 
tion,  Tom  from  another,  Winnie  from  a  third, 
and  Patty  screaming  in  fearful  dishabille  from 
the  attic,  and  the  congress  that  assembled  in 
that  entry  where  sat  Gypsy  speechless  on  one 
stair,  and  Joy  on  another,  the  power  fails  me 
to  describe. 

But  this  was  the  end  of  that  Christmas 
night. 

It  should  be  recorded  that  the  five-dollar  bill 
and  the  portfolio  with  purple  roses  on  it  were 
both  forthcoming  that  day,  and  that  Gypsy 
entirely  forgot  any  difference  between  her  own 
little  gifts  and  Joy's.  This  was  partly  because 
she  had  somehow  learned  to  be  glad  in  the  dif 
ference,  if  it  pleased  Joy ;  partly  because  of  a 
certain  look  in  her  mother's  eyes  when  she  saw 


182  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY, 

the  picture-frame.  Such  a  look  made  Gypsy 
happy  for  days  together. 

That  Christmas  was  as  merry  as  Christmas 
can  be,  but  the  best  part  of  it  all  was  the  sight 
of  Peace  Maythorne's  face  as  she  lay  twining 
the  gorgeous  worsteds  over  her  thin  fingers,  the 
happy  sunlight  touching  their  colors  of  crimson, 
and  royal  purple,  and  orange,  and  woodland 
brown,  just  as  kindly  as  it  was  touching  the 
new  Christmas  jewels  over  which  many  another 
young  girl  in  many  another  home  sat  laughing 
that  morning. 

But  Gypsy  long  remembered  —  she  remem 
bers  now  with  dim  eyes  and  quivering  smile  — 
how  Peace  drew  her  face  down  softly  on  the 
pillow,  pointing  to  the  blue  and  golden  words 
upon  the  wall,  and  said  in  a  whisper  that  nobody 
else  heard  — 

"That  is  best  of  all.  Oh,  Gypsy,  when  I 
woke  up  ia  the  morning  and  found  it  I  " 


CHAPTER    IX. 

UP   RATTLESNAKE. 

SHOULD  think  we  might,  I'm  sure," 
said  Joy  pausing,  with  a  crisp  bit  of  hali 
but  on  her  fork,  just  midway  between  her 
plate  and  her  lips. 
"You  needn't  shake  your  head  so,  Mother 
Breynton,"  said  Gypsy,  her  great  brown  eyes 
pleading  over  her  tea-cup  with  their  very  most 
irresistible  twinkle.  < '  Now  it  isn't  the  slightest 
trouble  to  say  yes,  and  you  can  just  as  well  say 
it  now  as  any  other  time,  you  know." 

"  But  it  really  seems  to  me  a  little  dangerous, 
Gypsy, — up  over  those  mountain  roads  on 
livery  stable  horses." 

44  But  Tom  says  it  isn't  a  bit  dangerous,  and 
183 


184 

Tom's  been  up  it  forty  times.  Rattlesnake  haa 
the  best  roads  of  any  of  the  mountains  round 
here,  and  there  are  fences  by  all  the  precipices, 
Tom  said,  didn't  you,  Tom?" 

"No,"  said  Tom,  coolly.  "There  isn't  a 
fence.  There  are  logs  in  some  places,  and  in 
some  there  aren't." 

"  Oh,  what  a  bother  you  are!  Well,  any 
way  it's  all  the  same,  and  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid 
of  stable  horses.  I  can  manage  any  of  them, 
from  Mr.  Burt's  iron-gray  colt  down,"  which  was 
true  enough.  Gypsy  was  used  to  riding,  and 
perfectly  fearless. 

"  But  Joy  hasn't  ridden  much,  and  I  should 
never  forgive  myself  if  any  accident  happened 
to  her  while  her  father  is  gone." 

6 '  Joy  can  ride  Billy.  There  isn't  a  cow  in 
Yorkbury  safer." 

Mrs.  Breynton  sipped  her  tea  and  thought 
about  it. 

"  I  want  to  go  horse-backing,  too,"  put  in 


UP   RATTLESNAKE.  185 

Winnie,   glaring   savagely  at    Gypsy    over  hia 
bread  and  milk.     "  I'm  five  years  old." 

"  And  jerked  six  whole  buttons  off  your 
jacket  tli  3  very  day,"  said  Gypsy,  eyeing 
certain  gaps  of  which  there  were  always  more 
or  less  to  be  seen  in  Winnie's  attire  in  spite  of 
his  mother's  care.  "A  boy  who  jerks  buttons 
like  that  couldn't  go  'horse-backing.'  You 
wouldn't  have  one  left  by  the  time  you  came 
home,  —  look  out,  you'll  have  your  milk  over. 
You  tipped  it  over  times  enough  this  morning 
for  one  day." 

1 '  You  will  -have  your  milk  over  ;  don't  stand 
the  mug  up  on  the  napkin-ring,  — no,  nor  on 
that  crust  of  bread,  either,"  repeated  his 
mother,  and  everybody  looked  up  anxiously, 
and  edged  away  a  little  from  Winnie's  immedi 
ate  vicinity.  This  young  gentleman  had  a 
pleasing  little  custom  of  deluging  the  united 
family  at  meal-time,  at  least  once  regularly 
fcvery  day,  with  milk  and  bread-crumbs  ;  mater- 


186' 

nal  and  paternal  injunctions,  threats,  <*nd  pun 
ishments  notwithstanding,  he  contrived  every 
day  some  perfectly  novel,  ingenious,  and  totally 
unexpected  method  of  accomplishing  the  same  ; 
uniting,  in  his  efforts,  the  strategy  of  a  Napo 
leon,  with  the  unruffled  composure  of  a  Grant. 

' i 1  don't  know  but  what  I'll  see  what  father 
thinks  about  it,"  Mrs.  Breynton  went  on 
thoughtfully.  "  If  he  should  be  willing — " 

"  Good,  good!  "  cried  Gypsy ;  clapping  her 
hands.  "Father's  in  the  library.  Winnie, 
you  run  up  and  ask  him  if  we  can't  go  up  Rat 
tlesnake." 

"Well,"  said  Winnie,  "when  I  just  get 
through  eatin'.  I'm  goin'  to  make  him  let  me 
horseback  as  much  as  you  or  anybody  else." 

Winnie  finished  his  toast  with  imperturbable 
deliberation,  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  jumped 
up. 

Splash  !  went  a  shower  of  milk  all  over  him, 
his  mother,  the  table,  and  the  carpet.  Every- 


UP    RATTLESNAKE.  187 

body  jumped.     Winnie  gasped  and  stood  drip 
ping. 

"  Ok-oh  !  how  did  he  do  it?  Why,  Winnie 
Breynton  !  " 

For  there  hung  the  mug  from  his  waist, 
empty,  upside  down,  tied  to  Ms  bib. 

"In  a  hard  knot,  if  you'll  believe  it!  I 
never  saw  such  a  child  in  all  my  life  !  Why 
Winnie!" 

The  utter  blankness  of  astonishment  that 
crept  over  Winnie's  face  when  he  looked  down 
and  saw  the  mug  hanging,  Mr.  Darley  might 
have  made  a  small  fortune  out  of;  but  the  pen 
of  a  Cicero  could  not  attempt  it.  It  appeared 
to  be  one  of  those  cases  when  ' '  the  heart  feels 
most  though  the  lips  move  not." 

"  What  did  you  do  such  a  thing  for?  What 
could  possess  you  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Winnie,  very  red  in  the  face, 
"  it's  there,  is  it?  I  was  a  steamboat,  and  th« 
inug  was  my  stove-pipe,  'n  then  I  forgot.  J 


188  .GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

want  a  dean  apron.     I  don't  want  any  milk  to- 
morrer." 

This  was  in  the  early  summer.  The  holidays 
had  come  and  gone,  and  the  winter  and  the 
spring.  Coasting,  skating,  and  snowballing 
had  given  place  to  driving  hoop,  picking  flowers, 
boating,  and  dignified  promenades  on  the  fash 
ionable  pavement  down  town  ;  furs  and  bright 
woollen  hoods,  tippets,  mittens,  and  rubber- 
boots  were  exchanged  for  calico  dresses,  com 
fortable,  brown,  bare  hands,  and  jaunty  straw 
hats  with  feathers  on  them.  On  the  whole,  it 
had  been  a  pleasant  winter :  times  there  had 
been,  when  Gypsy  heartily  wished  Joy  had 
never  come,  when  Joy  heartily  \vished  she  were 
at  home  ;  certain  little  jealousies  there  had  been, 
selfish  thoughts,  unkind  acts,  angry  words  ;  but 
many  penitent  hours  as  well,  some  confessions, 
the  one  to  'the  other,  that  nobody  else  heard, 
and  a  certain  faint,  growing  interest  in  each 
other.  Strictly  speaking,  they  did  not  very 


UP   RATTLESNAKE.  189 

much  love  each  other  yet,  but  they  were  not  far 
from  it.  "I  am  getting  used  to  Joy,"  said 
Gypsy.  "I  like  Gypsy  ever  so  much  better 
than  I  did  once,"  Joy  wrote  to  her  father.  One 
thing  they  had  learned  that  winter.  Every  gen 
erous  deed,  every  thoughtful  word,  narrowed 
the  distance  between  them  ;  each  one  wiped  out 
the  ugly  memory  of  some  past  impatience,  some 
past  unkindness.  And  now  something  was 
about  to  happen-  that  should  bring  them  nearer 
to  each  other  than  anything  had  done  yet. 

That  June  night  on  which  they  sat  at  the  tea- 
table  discussing  the  excursion  up  Rattlesnake, 
was  the  beginning  of  it.  When  Winnie  was 
sufficiently  mopped  up  to  admit  of  his  locomo 
tion  about  the  house  with  any  safety  to  the  car 
pets,  he  was  dispatched  to  the  library  on  the 
errand  to  his  father.  What  with  various  wire 
pullings  of  Gypsy's,  and  arguments  from  Tom, 
the  result  was  that  Mr.  Breynton  gave  his  con 
sent  to  the  plan,  on  condition  that  the  young 
people  would  submit  to  his  accompanying  them. 


190 

"  That's  perfectly  splend,"  cried  G^psy  ;  "all 
the  better  for  having  you.  Only,  my  best 
beloved  of  fathers,  you  mustn't  keep  saying, 
'  Gypsy,  Gypsy,  be  careful,'  you  know,  every 
time  my  horse  jumps,  because  if  you  should, 
I'm  very  much  afraid." 

"  Afraid  of  what?" 

"  That  Gypsy  wouldn't  be  careful,"  said  the 
young  lady,  folding  her  hands  demurely.  Her 
father  attempted  to  call  her  a  sauce-box,  but 
Gypsy  jumped  upon  his  knee,  and  pulled  his 
whiskers  till  he  cried  out  for  mercy,  and  gave 
her  a  kiss  instead. 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  reality  in  the 
fun,  however.  Mr.  Breynton's  over-anxiety  — 
fussiness,  some  people  would  have  called  it  — 
his  children  were  perfectly  conscious  of;  chil 
dren  are  apt  to  be  the  first  to  discover  their 
parents'  faults  and  weaknesses.  Gypsy  loved 
her  father  dearly,  but  she  somehow  always  felt 
as  if  he  must  be  managed. 

So  it  came  about  that  on  a  certain  royal  June 


UP   RATTLESNAKE.  191 

day,  a  merry  party  started  for  a  horseback  ride 
up  Rattlesnake  mountain. 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  take  my  waterproof," 
eaid  Joy,  as  they  were  starting;  "  we  may  not 
be  back  till  late,  and  you  know  how  cold  it 
grows  by  the  river  after  dark." 

"Nonsense!"  laughed  Gypsy;  "  why,  the 
thermometer's  80°  already." 

Nevertheless,  Joy  went  back  and  got  the 
waterproof.  She  afterwards  had  occasion  to  be 
very  glad  of  it. 

The  party  consisted  of  Mr.  Breynton,  Tom, 
Joy,  Gypsy,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hallam  (this  was 
the  Mrs.  Hallam  who  had  once  been  Gypsy's 
teacher)  ,  Sarah  Eowe,  and  her  brother  Francis, 
who  was  home  from  college  on  account  of  ill 
health,  he  said.  Tom  always  coughed  and 
arched  his  eyebrows  in  a  very  peculiar  way 
when  this  was  mentioned,  but  Gypsy  could 
^ver  find  out  what  he  did  it  for. 

The  day,  as  I  said,  was  royal.     The  sky,  the 


192 

river,  the  delicate  golden  green  of  the  young 
leaves  and  grass ,  the  lights  and  shadows  on  the 
distant  mountains,  all  were  mellowed  in  together 
like  one  of  Church's  pictures ;  and  there  was 
one  of  those  spicy  winds  that  Gypsy  always 
described  by  saying  that  "  the  angels  had  been 
showering  great  bottles  of  fresh  cologne-water 
into  them." 

The  young  people  felt  these  things  in  a  sort 
of  dreamy,  unconscious  way,  but  they  were  too 
busy  and  too  merry  to  notice  them  in  detail. 

Joy  was  mounted  safely  on  demure  Billy, 
and  Gypsy  rode  —  not  Mr.  Burt's  iron-gray, 
for  Tom  claimed  that,  —  but  a  free,  though 
manageable  pony,  with  just  the  arch  of  the 
neck,  toss  of  the  mane,  and  coquettish  lifting 
of  the  feet  that  she  particularly  fancied.  The 
rest  were  variously  mounted ;  Francis  Eowe 
rode  a  fiery  colt  that  his  father  had  just  bought, 
and  the  like  of  which  was  not  to  be  seen  in 
Yorkbury. 


UP    EATTLESNAKE.  193 

gp — up,  winding  on  and  away,  through 
odors  of  fragrant  pines  and  unseen  flowers, 
under  the  soft,  green  shadows,  through  the  yel 
low  lights.  How  beautiful,  —  how  beautiful  it 
was  I 

4 'Who'll  race  with  me?"  inquired  Mr. 
Francis  Rowe  suddenly.  "I  call  it  an  uncom 
mon  bore,  this  doing  nothing  but  looking  at  the 
trees.  I  say,  Breynton,  the  slope's  easy  here 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile ;  come  ahead." 

"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  approve  of  racing 
up  mountains." 

Tom  might  have  said  he  didn't  approve  of 
being  beaten  ;  the  iron-gray  was  no  match  for 
the  colt,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  Who'll  race?"  persisted  Mr.  Francis,  im 
patiently  ;  ' '  isn't  there  anybody  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Gypsy,  seriously  enough. 

"  You  !  "  said  Tom  ;  "  why,  the  colt  would 
leave  that  bay  mare  out  of  sight  before  you 

could  say  Jack  Robinson.  ' 
13 


194  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"Oh,  I  don't  expect  to  beat.  Of  course 
that's  out  of  the  question.  But  I  should  like 
the  run  ;  where's  the  goal,  Francis?  " 

"  That  turn  in  the  road  where  the  tall  fir- 
tree  is,  with  those  dead  limbs  ;  you  see?" 

"Yes.     We'll  trot,  of  course.     All  ready." 

"  Be  very  careful,  Gypsy,"  called  her  father, 
nervously ;  ' '  I'm  really  almost  afraid  to  have 
you  go.  You  might  come  to  the  precipice 
sooner  than  you  expect,  and  then  the  horse  may 

shy." 

"Til    be    careful,    father;  —  come,    Nelly, 

gently,  —  whe-ee  !  " 

Suddenly  reflecting  that  it  was  not  supposed 
to  be  ladylike  to  whistle,  Gypsy  drew  her  lips 
into  a  demure  pucker,  touched  Nelly  with  the 
tassel  of  her  whip,  and  flew  away  up  the  hill  on 
a  brisk  trot.  Mr.  Francis  condescendingly 
checked  the  full  speed  of  the  colt,  and  they  rode 
on  pretty  nearly  side  by  side. 

"  I'm  afraid,  in  justice  to  my  horse,  I  must 


UP    RATTLESNAKE.  195 

really  come  infiist,"  began  Mr.  Francis,  loosen 
ing  his  rein  as  they  neared  the  fir-tree. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eyes  ;  "  I  didn't  undertake  to  beat." 

Now  Nelly  had  a  trick  with  which  Gypsy  was 
perfectly  familiar,  of  breaking  into  a  run  at  an 
instant's  notice,  if  she  were  pinched  in  a  certain 
spot  on  her  neck.  Suddenly,  while  the  colt 
was  springing  on  in  his  fleet  trot,  and  Mr. 
Francis  supposed  Gypsy  was  a  full  eight  feet 
behind,  he  was  utterly  confounded  to  see  her 
flying  past  him  on  a  bounding  gallop,  her  hair 
tossing  in  the  wind,  her  cheeks  scarlet,  her  eyes 
triumphant. 

But  right  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  between 
them  and  the  fir-tree,  was  something  neither  of 
them  had  seen  ;  —  a  huge  tree  just  fallen,  with 
its  high,  prickly  branches  on. 

"  Jerusalem  !  "  said  Mr.  Francis,  under  his 
breath,  as  the  colt  pricked  up  his  ears  omm- 
oush . 


196  GYroi  S   COUSIN   JOY. 

"Oh,  good!  here's  a  jump,"  cried  Gypsy, 
and  over  it  she  went  at  a  bound.  Tl.e  coll 
reared  and  shied,  and  planting  his  dainty  fore 
feet  firmly  on  the  ground,  refused  to  stir  an 
inch.  Gypsy  whirled  around  and  stood  tri 
umphant  under  the  fir-tree,  her  eyes  snapping 
merrily. 

"  Why,  how  did  this  ever  happen  ?  "  cried  the 
rest,  as  they  came  laughing  up. 

"I  say,  there's  some  witchcraft  about  this 
business,"  remarked  Mr.  Francis,  quite  bewil 
dered ;  "wait  till  I've  cleared  off  these 
branches,  and  we'll  try  that  over  again." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gypsy,  in  a  perfect  whirl 
of  excitement  and  delight,  as  she  always  was, 
with  anything  in  the  shape  of  reins  in  her  hand. 
But  just  then  she  looked  back  and  saw  Joy 
toiling  on  slowly  behind  the  others  ;  Billy  with 
his  head  hanging  and  his  spirits  quite  gone 
Gypsy  stopped  a  moment  as  if  in  thought,  and 
tLen  rode  slowly  down  the  hill. 


GYPSY'S  RACE  WITH  MR.  FRANCIS.    PAGB  196. 


UP   RATTLESNAKE.  197 

"  I'm  having  a  horrid  time,"  said  Joy  discon 
solately,  as  she  came  up  ;  "  Billy  is  as  stupid  as 
a  mule,  and  won't  go." 

"  I'm  rea,  sorry,"  said  Gypsy,  slowly  ;  "  you 
might  have  Nelly.  We'll  change  awhile." 

"No,''  ?uid  Joy,  'I'm  afraid  of  Nelly. 
Besides,  you  wouldn't  like  Billy  any  better  than 
I  do.  It's  dreadfully  stupid  back  here  alone, 
though.  I  wish  I  hadn't  come." 

"Francis,"  called  Gypsy,  "I  guess  I  wont 
race.  I'm  going  to  ride  with  Joy  awhile." 

"Why,  you  needn't  do  that!"  said  Joy, 
rather  ashamed  of  her  complaining.  But 
Gypsy  did  do  it ;  and  though  her  face  had 
clouded  for  tbe  moment,  a  sunbeam  broke  over 
it  then  that  lasted  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  day  passed  very  much  like  other  picnics. 
They  stopped  in  a  broad,  level  place  on  the 
summit  of  the  mountain,  tied  the  horses  where 
they  could  graze  on  the  long,  tufted  wood- grass, 
unpacked  tlie  dinner-baskets,  and  devoted  them- 


.98  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

selves  to  biscuit  and  cold  tongue,  tarts,  lemon 
ade  and  currant  wine,  through  the  lazy,  golden 
nooning. 

It  was  voted  that  they  should  not  attempt  the 
iong,  hot  ride  down  the  mountain -side,  until  the 
blaze  of  the  afternoon  sun  should  be  somewhat 
cooled.  So,  after  dinner  they  went  their  several 
ways,  finding  amusement  for  the  sultry  hours. 
Mr.  Breynton  and  Tom  went  off  on  a  hunt 
after  a  good  place  to  water  the  horses  ;  Francis 
Rowe  betook  himself  to  a  cigar ;  Sarah  curled 
herself  up  on  the  soft  moss  with  her  sack  for  a 
pillow,  and  went  to  sleep;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hal- 
lam  sat  under  the  trees  and  read  Tennyson  to 
each  other. 

"  How  terribly  stupid  that  must  be,'*  said 
Gypsy,  looking  on  in  supreme  disgust;  "let's 
you  and  I  go  off.  I  know  a  place  where  there 
used  to  be  some  splendid  foxberry  blossoms, 
lots  of  'em,  real  pretty  ;  they  looked  just  as  if 
they  were  snipped  out  of  pearls  with  a  pair  of 
sharp  scissors." 


UP    RATTLESNAKE.  199 

"I  wouldn't  go  out  of  sight  of  us  all," 
called  Mr.  Breynton,  as  the.  two  girls  roamed 
away  together  among  the  trees. 

<  <  But  you  are  most  out  of  sight  now,"  said 
Joy,  presently. 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  say  we  mustn't,"  answered 
Gypay.  "  He  didn't  mean  we  mustn't,  either. 
Father  always  worries  so."  , 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Gypsy  if  her 
father's  uish  had  been  to  her  what  her  mother's 
was,  —  as  binding  as  a  command. 

"Just  think,"  observed  Gypsy,  as  they 
strolled  on  through  the  fallen  leaves  and  red- cup 
mosses,  "just  think  of  their  sitting  still  and 
reading  poetry  on  a  picnic  !  I  can't  get  over  it. 
Miss  Melville  didn't  used  to  do  such  stupid 
things.  It's  just  'cause  she's  married." 

"  How  do  you  know  but  you'll  do  just  the 
same  some  day  ?  " 

"  Catch  ine  !  I'm  not  going  to  be  married 
at  all." 


200  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"Not  going  to  be  married!  Why,  T  am, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  a  white  velvet  dress, 
too." 

"  Well,  you  may.  But  I  wouldn't  for  a 
whole  trunkful  of  white  velvet  dresses,  —  no,  1 
wouldn't  for  two  dozen  trunkfuls.  I'm  not 
going  to  stay  at  home  and  keep  house,  and  look 
sober,  with  my  hair  done  up  behind.  I'd  rather 

4 

be  an  old  maid,  and  have  a  pony,  and  run 
round  in  the  woods." 

"  Why,  I  never  saw  such  a  girl ! "  exclaimed 
Joy,  opening  her  small  eyes  wide  ;  "I  wouldn't 
be  an  old  maid  for  anything.  I'm  going  to  be 
married  in  St.  Paul's,  and  I'm  going  to  have  my 
dress  all  caught  up  with  orange-buds,  and 
spangles  on  my  veil.  Therese  and  I,  we 
planned  it  all  out  one  night,  —  Therese  used  to 
be  my  French  nurse,  you  know." 

For  answer,  Gypsy  threw  herself  down  sud 
denly  on  the  velvet  moss,  her  eyes  turned  up 
to  the  far,  hazy  sky,  showing  in  patches  through 
a  lace-work  of  thousands  of  leaves. 


UP    IIATTLESNAKE.  201 

"Joy,"  she  said,  breaking  a  silence,  and 
speaking  in  a  curious,  earnest  tone  Gypsy  sel 
dom  used,  "  I  do  really,  though,  sometimes  go 
off  alone  where  there  are  some  trees,  and 
wonder." 

"Wonder  what?" 

"  What  in  this  world  I  was  ever  made  for. 
I  suppose  there's  got  to  be  a  reason." 

"  A  reason  !  "  said  Joy,  blankly. 

"  There's  got  to  be  something  done,  for  all  I 
see.  God  doesn't  make  people  live  on  and  on 
and  die,  for  nothing.  One  can't  be  a  little  girl 
all  one's  life,  climbing  trees  and  making  snow 
balls,"  said  Gypsy,  half  dreamily,  half  impa 
tiently,  jumping  up  and  walking  on. 

So  they  wandered  away  and  away,  deeper 
into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  through  moss  and 
tufted  grasses,  and  tangles  of  mountain  flowers, 
chatting  as  girls  will,  in  their  silly,  merry  \v;iy, 
with  now  and  then  a  flash  of  graver  thought 
like  this  of  Gypsy's. 


202  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

61  You're  sure  you  know  the  way  back."  said 
Joy,  presently. 

"  Oh,  yes;  I've  been  over  it  forty  times. 
We've  turned  about  a  good  many  times,  but  I 
don't  think  we've  gone  very  far  from  the  top  of 
the  mountain." 

So,  deeper,  and  further,  and  on,  where  the 
breath  of  the  pines  was  sweet ;  where  hidden 
blossoms  were  folding  their  cups  for  the  night, 
and  the  shadows  in  the  thickets  were  growing 
gray. 

"  Gypsy  !  "  said  Joy,  suddenly,  "  we're  cer 
tainly  going  down  hill." 

66  So  we  are,"  said  Gypsy,  thoughtfully; 
"  it's  getting  dark,  too.  They'll  be  ready  to 
start  for  home.  I  guess  we'll  go  back  now." 

They  turned  then,  and  began  rapidly  to 
retrace  their  steps,  over  brambles  and  stones  and 
fallen  trees ;  through  thickets,  and  up  projecting 
rocks,  — very  rapidly. 

"  It  is  growing  dark,"  said  Gypsy,  hal/  <mdei 


UP   RATTLESNAKE. 

her  breath  ;  "  why  didn't  we  find  it  out  before?" 

"  Gypsy,"  said  Joy,  after  a  silence,  "  do  you 
remember  that  knot  of  white  birches  ?  T  don't.'' 

Qypsy  stopped  and  looked  around. 

"N-no,  I  don't  know  as  I  do.  But  I  dare 
say  we  saw  them  and  forgot.  Let's  walk  a 
little  faster." 

They  walked  a  little  faster.  They  walked 
quite  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 

"  See  that  great  pile  of  rock,"  said  Joy, 
presently,  her  voice  trembling  a  little  ;  "  I  know 
we  didn't  come  by  that  before.  It  looks  as  if 
there  were  a  precipice  off  there." 

Gypsy  made  no  answer.  She  was  looking 
keenly  around,  her  eyes  falling  on  every  rock, 
stump,  tree,  and  flower,  in  search  of  the  tiny, 
trodden  path  by  which  they  had  left  the  summit 
of  the  mountain.  But  there  was  no  path. 
Only  the  bramble,  and  the  grass,  and  the  tangled 
thickets. 

It  was  now  very  dark. 


204 

"  I  guess  this  is  the  way,"  spoke  up  Gypsy, 
cheerfully,  —  "  here.  Take  hold  of  my  hand, 
Joy,  and  we'll  run.  I  think  I  know  where  the 
path  is.  We  had  turned  off  from  it  a  little 
bit." 

Joy  took  her  hand,  and  they  ran  on  together. 
It  grew  darker,  and  grew  darker.  They  could 
scarcely  see  the  sky  now,  and  the  brambles 
grew  high  and  thick  and  strange. 

Suddenly  Gypsy  stopped,  knee-deep  in  a  jun 
gle  of  blackberry  bushes. 

"Joy,  I'm  —  afraid  I  don't  —  know  the — 
way." 


CHAPTER    X. 

WE   ARE   LOST! 

two  girls,  still  clasping  hands,  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  Gypsy  was 
very  pale. 

* «  Then  we  are  lost  /  n 
"Yes." 

"  And  it's  so  dark!" 

Joy  broke  into  a  sort  of  sobbing  cry.  Gypsy 
squeezed  her  hand  very  tightly,  with  quivering 
lips. 

"  It's  all  my  fault.  I  thought  I  knew.  Oh, 
Joy,  I'm  so  sorry  !  " 

Sho  expected  Joy  to  burst  forth  in  a  torrent 
of  reproaches  ;  once  it  would  have  been  so  ;  but 
for  some  reason,  Joy  did  not  say  an  angry  word, 
(205) 


206  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

She  only  sobbed  away  quietly,  clutching  at 
Gypsy's  hand  as  if  she  were  very  much  fright 
ened.  She  was  frightened  thoroughly.  The 
scene  was  enough  to  terrify  a  far  less  timid  child 
than  Joy. 

It  was  now  quite  dark.  Over  in  the  west,  a 
faint,  ghostly  gleam  of  light  still  lingered,  seen 
dimly  through  the  trees ;  but  it  only  made  the 
utter  blackness  of  the  great  forest-shadows  more 
horrible.  The  huge  trunks  of  the  pines  and 
maples  towered  up,  up  —  they  could  scarcely 
see  how  far,  grim,  and  gloomy,  and  silfit ;  here 
and  there  a  dead  branch  thrust  itself  o^tt  against 
the  sky,  in  that  hideous  likeness  to  a  fleshlcss 
hand  which  night  and  darkness  always  lend  to 
them.  Even  Gypsy,  though  she  had  been  in 
the  woods  many  times  at  nignt  before,  shud 
dered  as  she  stood  looking  up.  A  queer  thought 
came  to  her,  of  an  old  fable  she  had  sometime 
read  in  Tom's  mythology  ;  a  fable  of  some  huge 
Titans,  angry  and  fierce,  who  tried  to  cliirb 


WE   ARE   LOST!  207 

into  heaven  :  there  was  just  that  look  about  the 
trees.  It  was  very  still.  The  birds  were  in 
their  nests,  their  singing  done.  From  far  away 
in  some  distant  swamp  came  the  monotonous, 
mournful  chant  of  the  frogs,  —  a  dreary  sound 
enough,  heard  in  a  safe  and  warm  and  lighted 
home  ;  unspeakably  ugly  if  one  is  lost  in  a  deso 
late  forest. 

Now  and  then  a  startled  squirrel  dropped 
from  bough  to  bough  ;  or  there  was  the  stealthy, 
sickening  rustle  of  an  unseen  snake  among  the 
fallen  leaves.  From  somewhere,  too,  where 
precipices  that  they  could  not  find  dashed 
downwards  into  damp  gullies,  cold,  clinging 
mists  were  rising. 

"To  stay  here  all  night!"  sobbed  Joy, 
"Oh,  Gypsy,  Gypsy!" 

Gypsy  was  a  brave,  sensible  girl,  and  after 
that  first  moment  of  horror  when  she  stood 
looking  up  at  the  trees,  her  courage  rud  her 
wits  came  back  to  her. 


208 

*  *  I  don't  believe  we  shall  have  to  stay  here 
all  night,"  speaking  in  a  decided,  womanly  way, 
a  little  of  the  way  her  mother  had,  in  a  diffi 
culty. 

'  *  They  are  all  over  the  mountain  hunting  for 
us  now.  They'll  find  us  before  long,  I  know. 
Besides,  if  they  didn't,  we  could  sit  down  in  a 
dry  place  somewhere,  and  wait  till  morning ; 
there  wouldn't  anything  hurt  us.  Oh,  you 
b.  smght  your  waterproof —  good  !  Put  it  on 
and  button  it  up  tight." 

Joy  had  the  cloak  folded  over  her  arm.  She 
did  passively  as  Gypsy  told  her.  When  it  was 
all  buttoned,  she  suddenly  remembered  that 
Gypsy  wore  only  her  thin,  nankeen  sack,  and 
she  offered  to  share  it  with  her. 

"  No,"  said  Gypsy,  "  I  don't  want  it.  Wrap 
it  around  your  throat  as  warm  as  you  can.  I 
got  you  into  this  scrape,  and  now  I'm  going  to 
take  care  of  you.  Now  let's  1  lloa." 

And  Loiloa  they  did,  to  the  best  of  their 


WE    AI\3   LOST  !  209 

ability ;  Joy  in  her  feeble,  frightened  way , 
Gypsy  in  loud  shouts,  and  strong,  like  a  boy's. 
But  there  was  no  answer.  They  called  again 
and  again;  they  stopped  after  each  cry,  with 
breath  held  in,  and  head  bent  to  listen.  Nothing 
was  to  be  heard  but  the  frogs  and  the  squirrels 
and  the  gliding  snakes. 

Joy  broke  out  into  fresh  sobs. 

"  Well,  it's  no  use  to  stand  here  any  longer ,v 
said  Gypsy  ;  "  let's  run  on." 

"  Run  where?  You  don't  know  which  way. 
What  shall  we  dc,  what  shall  we  do?  " 

"  We'll  go  this  way,  — we  haven't  tried  it  at 
all.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  the  path  were 
right  over  there  where  it  looks  so  black.  Be 
sides,  we  shall  hear  them  calling  for  us." 

Ah,  if  there  had  been  anybody  to  tell  them  ! 

In  precisely  the  other  direction,  the  picnic  party, 

roused   and   frightened,    were    searching  every 

thicket,    and   shouting   their   name/    at    every 

U 


210 

ravine.  Each  step  the  girls  took  now  sent 
them  so  much  further  away  from  help. 

While  they  were  running  on,  still  hand  in 
hand,  Joy  heard  the  most  remarkable  sound. 
It  was  a  laugh  from  Gypsy,  — actually  a  soft, 
merry  laugh,  breaking  out  like  music  on  the 
night  air,  in  the  dreary  place. 

"Why,  Gypsy  Breynton  !  What  can  you 
find  to  laugh  at,  I  should  like  to  know?  "  said 
Joy,  provoked  enough  to  stop  crying  at  very 
short  notice. 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  really  can't  help  it,"  apologized 
Gypsy,  choking  down  the  offending  mirth : 
"  but  I  was  thinking  —  I  couldn't  help  it,  Joy, 
now,  possibly  —  how  mad  Francis  Rowe  will 
be  to  think  he's  got  to  stop  and  help  hunt 
us  up  ! " 

"  I  wonder  what  that  black  thing  is  ahead 
of  us,"  said  Joy,  presently.  They  were  still 
running  on  together,  but  their  hands  were  not 
joined  just  at  that  moment.  Joy  was  a  little  in 
advance. 


WE   ARE   LOST  !  211 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Gypsy  eyeing 
it  intently.  The  words  were  scarcely  off  from 
her  lips  before  she  cried  out  with  a  loud  cry, 
and  sprang  forward,  clutching  at  Joy's  dress. 

She  was  too  late. 

Joy  tripped  over  a  mass  of  briars,  fell,  rolled 
heavily,  —  not  over  upon  the  ground,  but  off. 
Off  into  horrible,  utter  darkness.  Down,  with 
outstretched  hands  and  one  long  shriek. 

Gypsy  stood  as  if  some  one  had  charmed  her 
into  a  marble  statue,  her  hands  thrown  above 
her  head,  her  eyes  peering  into  the  blank  dark 
ness  below. 

She  stood  so  for  one  instant  only ;  then  she 
did  what  only  wild,  impulsive  Gypsy  would 
have  done.  She  went  directly  down  after  Joy, 
clinging  with  her  hands  and  feet  to  the  side  of 
the  cliff;  slipping,  rolling,  getting  to  her  feet 
again,  tearing  her  clothes,  her  hands,  her 
arms,  —  down  like  a  ball,  bounding,  bouncing, 
blinded,  bewildsred. 


212  GYPSY'S  cousm  JOY. 

If  it  had  been  four  hundred  feet,  there  is  no 
doubt  she  would  have  gone  just  the  same.  It 
proved  to  be  only  ten,  and  she  landed  some 
where  on  a  patch  of  soft  grass,  except  for  her 
scratches  and  a  bruise  or  two,  quite  unhurt. 

Something  lay  there  beside  her,  flat  upon  the 
ground.  It  was  Joy.  She  lay  perfectly  still. 

A  horrible  fear  came  over  Gypsy.  She  crept 
up  on  her  hands  and  knees,  trying  to  see  her 
face  through  the  dark,  and  just  then  Joy  moaned 
faintly.  Gypsy's  heart  gave  a  great  thump. 
In  that  moment,  in  the  moment  of  that  horrible 
fear  and  that  great  relief,  Gypsy  knew  for  the 
first  time  that  she  loved  Joy,  and  how  much. 

"  It's  my  ankle,"  moaned  Joy  ;  "  it  must  be 
broken,  —  I  know  it's  broken." 

It  was  not  broken,  but  very  badly  sprained. 

4 «  Can  you  stand  on  it  ?  "  asked  Gypsy,  her 
face  almost  as  pale  as  Joy's. 

Joy  tried  to  get  to  her  feet,  but  fell  heavily, 
with  a  cry  of  pain. 


WE   ARE   LOST!  213 

Gypsy  looked  around  her  with  dismay. 
Above,  the  ten  feet  of  rock  shot  steeply ;  across 
the  gully  towered  a  high ,  dark  wall ;  at  each 
end,  shelving  stones  were  piled  upon  each  other. 
They  had  fallen  into  a  sort  of  unroofed  cave,  — 
a  hollow,  shut  in  completely  and  impassably. 
Impassably  to  Joy ;  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  that.  To  leave  her  there  alone  was  out 
of  the  question.  There  was  but  one  thing  to 
be  done  ;  there  was  no  alternative. 

"  We  must  stay  here  all  night,"  said  Gypsy, 
slowly.  She  had  scarcely  finished  her  sentence 
when  she  sprang  up,  her  lips  parted  and  white. 

"  Joy,  see,  see  !  what  is  that?" 

"  What?     Where?"  asked  Joy  between  her 


"  There  !  isn't  that  smoke  ?  " 

A  distinct,  crackling  sound  answered  her,  as 
of  something  fiercely  licking  up  the  dead  leaves 
and  twigs,  —  a  fearful  sound  to  hear  in  a  great 
forest.  At  the  same  instant  a  white,  cloud  of 


214  GYPSY'S  COUSIN 

smoke   puffed  down   almost  into    their  faces. 
Before  they  had  time  to  stir  or  cry  out,  a  great 
jet  of  yellow  flame  shot  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  glared  far  into  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
lighted  up  the  ravine  with  an  awful  brightness. 
The  mountain  was  on  fire. 
Gypsy  sat  for  the  instant  without  speaking  or 
moving.      She  seemed  to  herself  to  have  no 
words  to  say,  no  power  of  motion.     She  knew 
far  better  than  Joy  what  those  five  words  meant. 
A  dim  remembrance  came  to  her  —  and  it  was 
horrible  that  it  should  come  to  her  just  then  — 
of  something  she  had  seen  when  she  was  a  very 
little  girl,  and^ever  forgotten,  and  never  would 
forget.     A  mountain  burning  for  weeks,  and  a 
woman  lost  on  it ;  all  the  town  turned  out  in  an 
agony  of  search ;  the  fires  out  one  day,  and  a 
slow    procession    winding    down    the     blank, 
charred  slope,  bearing  something   closely  cov 
ered,  that  no  one  looked  upon. 

She  sprang  up  in  an  agony  of  terror. 


WE   AKE    LOST!  215 

"  Oh,  Joy,  can't  you  walk?  We  shall  die 
here  !  We  shall  be  burned  to  death  !  " 

At  that  moment  a  flaming  branch  fell  hissing 
into  a  little  pool  at  the  bottom  of  the  gully.  It 
passed  so  near  them  that  it  singed  a  lock  of 
Gypsy's  hair. 

Joy  crawled  to  her  feet,  fell,  crawled  up 
again,  fell  again. 

Gypsy  seized  her  in  both  arms,  and  dragged 
her  across  the  gully.  Joy  was  taller  than  her 
self,  and  nearly  as  heavy.  How  she  did  it  she 
never  knew.  Terror  gave  her  a  flash  of  that 
sort  of  strength  which  we  sometimes  find  among 
the  insane. 

She  laid  Joy  down  in  a  corner  of  the  ravine 
the  furthest  removed  from  the  fire ;  she  could 
not  have  .carried  her  another  inch.  Above  and 
all  around  towered  and  frowned  the  rocks  ;  there 
was  not  so  much  as  a  crevice  opening  between 
them ;  there  was  not  a  spot  that  Joy  could 
climb.  Across,  the  great  tongues  of  flame 


216  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

tossed  themselves  intc  the  air,  and  glared 
awfully  against  the  sky  which  was  dark  with 
hurrying  clouds.  The  underbrush  was  all  on 
fire ;  two  huge  pine  trees  were  ablaze,  their 
branches  shooting  off  hotly  now  and  then  like 
rockets. 

When  t/tose  trees  fell  they  would  fall  into  the 
ravine. 

Gypsy  sat  down  and  covered  her  face. 

Little  did  Mr.  Francis  Rowe  think  what  he 
had  done,  when,  strolling  along  by  the  ravine 
at  twilight,  he  threw  down  his  half-burnt  cigar : 
threw  it  down  and  walked  away  whistling,  and 
has  probably  never  thought  of  it  from  that  day 
to  this. 

Gypsy  sat  there  with  her  hands  before  her 
face,  and  she  sat  very  still.  She  understood  in 
that  moment  what  was  coming  to  her  and  to 
Joy.  Yes,  to  her  as  well  as  to  Joy;  for  she 
would  not  leave  Joy  to  die  alone.  It  would  be 
an  easy  thing  for  her  to  climb  the  cliffs ;  she 


WE   ARE   LOST  i  217 

was  agile,  fearless,  as  used  to  the  mountains  as 
a  young  chamois,  and  the  ascent  as  I  said, 
though  steep,  was  not  high.  Once  out  of  that 
gully  where  death  was  certain,  she  would  have 
at  least  a  chance  of  life.  The  fire  if  not  checked 
would  spread  rapidly,  would  chase  her  down  the 
mountain.  But  that  she  could  escape  it  she 
thought  was  probable,  if  not  sure.  And  life 
was  so  sweet,  so  dear.  And  her  mother  —  poor 
mother,  waiting  at  home,  and  looking  and 
longing  for  her  I 

Gypsy  gave  a  great  gulp ;  there  was  such  a 
pain  in  her  throat  it  seemed  as  if  it  would 
strangle  her.  But  should  she  leave  Joy,  crip 
pled  and  helpless,  to  die  alone  in  this  horrible 
place?  Should  she  do  it?  No,  it  was  through 
her  careless  fault  that  they  had  been  brought 
into  it.  She  would  stay  with  Joy. 

"I  dcn't  see  as  we  can  do  anything,"  she 
said,  raising  her  head. 

"Shall  we  be  burned  to  death?"  shrieked 


218  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Joy.  "  Gypsy,  Gypsy,  shall  we  be  burned  to 
death?" 

A  huge,  hot  branch  flew  into  the  gully  while 
she  spoke,  hissing  as  the  other  had  done,  into 
tte  pool.  The  glare  shot  deeper  and  redder 
into  the  forest,  and  the  great  trees  writhed  in 
the  flames  like  human  things. 

The  two  girls  caught  each  other's  hands.  To 
die  —  to  die  so  horribly  !  One  moment  to  be 
sitting  there,  well  and  strong,  so  full  of  warm, 
young  life ;  the  next  to  lie  buried  in  a  hideous 
tangle  of  fallen,  flaming  trunks,  their  bodies 
consuming  to  a  little  heap  of  ashes  that  the  wind 
would  blow  away  to-morrow  morning;  their 
souls  —  where? 

"I  wish  I'd  said  my  prayers  every  day," 
sobbed  Joy,  weakly.  "  I  wish  I'd  been  a  good 
girl!" 

"  Let's  say  them  now,  Joy.  Let's  ask  Him 
to  stop  the  fire.  If  He  can't,  maybe  He'll  let 
us  go  to  heaven  anv  way." 


WE   ARE    LOST  !  219 

So  Gypsy  knelt  down  on  the  rocks  that  were 
becoming  hot  now  to  the  touch,  and  began  the 
first  words  that  came  to  her, —  "  Our  Father 
which  art  in  Heaven,"  and  faltered  in  them, 
sobbing,  and  began  again,  and  went  through 
somehow  to  the  end. 

After  that,  they  were  still  a  moment. 

"Joy,"  said  Gypsy  then,  faintly,  "  I've  been 
real  ugly  to  you  since  you've  been  at  our 
house." 

"  I've  scolded  you,  too,  a  lot,  and  made  fun 
of  your  things.  I  wish  I  hadn't." 

"  If  we  could  only  get  out  of  here,  I'd  never 
be  cross  to  you  as  long  as  ever  I  live,  and  I 
wish  you'd  please  to  forgive  me." 

" 1. will  if — if  you'll  forgive  me,  you  know. 
Oh,  Gypsy,  it's  growing  so  hot  over  here  !  " 

"  Kiss  me,  Joy." 

They  kissed  each  other,  through  their. sobs. 

"  Mother's  in  the  parlor  now,  watching  foi 
us,  and  Tom  and  —  " 


220  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Gypsy's  sentence  was  never  finished.  There 
was  a  great  blazing  and  crackling,  and  one  of 
the  trees  fell,  swooping  down  with  a  crash.  It 
fell  across  the  ravine,  lying  there,  a  bridge  of 
flame,  and  lighting  the  underbrush  upon  the 
opposite  side.  One  tree  stood  yet.  That 
would  fall  when  it  fell,  directly  into  the  corner 
of  the  gully  where  the  girls  wcie  crouched  up 
against  the  rocks.  And  then  Joy  remembered 
what  in  her  terror  she  had  not  thought  of  be 
fore. 

4 '  Gypsy,  you  can  climb  !  don't  stay  here  with 
me.  What  are  you  staying  for  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  talk  about  that,"  said  Gypsy, 
with  faltering  voice  ;  "  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
you  wouldn't  be  here.  I'm  not  going  to  sneak 
off  and  leave  you,  — not  any  such  a  thing  !  " 

Whether  Gypsy  would  have  kept  this  re 
solve  —  and  very  like  Gypsy  it  was,  to  make 
it  —  when  the  flames  were  actually  upon  her ; 
whether,  indeed,  she  ought  to  have  kept  it,  are 


WE   ARE   LOST!  221 

questions  open  to  discussion.  Something  hap 
pened  just  then  that  saved  her  the  trouble  of 
deciding.  It  was  nothing  but  a  clap  of  thun 
der,  to  be  sure,  but  I  wonder  if  you  have  any 
idea  how  it  sounded  to  those  two  girls. 

It  was  a  tremendous  peal,  and  it  was  followed 
by  a  fierce  lightning-flash  and  a  second  peal, 
and  then  by  something  that  the  girls  stretched 
out  their  arms  to  with  a  great  cry,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  angel  from  heaven.  A  shower  almost 
like  the  bursting  of  a  cloud,  —  great,  pelting 
drops,  hissing  down  upon  the  burning  brush, 
upon  the  bridge  of  fire,  upon  the  flaming  tree ; 
it  seemed  like  a  solid  sheet  of  water ;  as  if  the 
very  flood-gates  of  heaven  were  open. 

The  cruel  fire  hissed  and  sputtered,  and  shot 
up  in  angry  jets,  and  died  in  puffs  of  sullen 
smoke ;  the  glaring  bridge  blackened  slowly  ; 
the  pine-tree,  swayed  by  the  sudden  winds,  fell 
mto  the  forest,  and  the  ravine  was  safe.  The 


222  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

flames,  though  not  quenched, — it  might  take 
hours  to  do  that,  — were  thoroughly  checked. 

And  who  was  that  with  white,  set  face,  and 
outstretched  hands,  springing  over  the  smoking 
logs,  leaping  down  into  the  ravine? 

"Oh,  Tom,  Tom!  Oh,  father,  here  we 
are!" 


I  4 


4  (. 


CHAPTEK 

GKAND  TIMES. 

go  to  Washington?" 
Go  to  Washington  ! " 
Did  you  ever  ?  " 
Never ! " 
"  See  the  President." 

"  And  the  White  House  and  the  soldiers." 
"  And  the  donkeys  and  all." 
"I  know  it." 

4  *  Father  Breynton,  if  you're  not  just  magnif 
icent  !  " 

This  classical  conversation  took  place  on  a 
certain  Wednesday  morning  in  that  golden  June 
which  the  picnic  ushered  in.     And  such  a  hur 
rying  and  scampering,  and  mending  and  making 
223 


224  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

of  dresses,  such  a  trimming  of  summer  hats 
and  packing  of  trunks  and  valises,  as  there  was 
the  rest  of  that  week  ! 

"  You'd  better  believe  we're  busy,"  Gypsy 
observed,  wiin  a  very  superior  air,  to  Mrs. 
Surly,  who  had  "just  dropped  in  to  find  out 
what  that  flyaway  Gypsy  had  been  screechin' 
round  the  house  so  for,  these  two  days  past." 

"  You'd  better  believe  we  have  enough  to  do. 
Joy's  got  two  white  skirts  to  have  tucked  in 
little  bits  of  tucks,  and  she's  sent  to  Boston  for 
a  new  veil.  Mother's  made  me  a  whole  new 
dress  to  wear  in  the  cars,  and  I've  got  a  beau- 
tiful  brown  feather  for  my  turban.  Besides, 
we're  going  to  see  the  President,  and  what  do 
you  think  ?  Father  says  there  arc  ever  so  many 
mules  in  Washington.  Wont  I  sit  at  the  win 
dows  and  see  'em  go  by  !  " 

Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday  passed  ;  Sunday 
began  and  ended  in  a  rain-storm  ;  Monday  came 
like  a  dream,  with  warm,  sweet  winds,  and 


GRAND   TIMES.  225 

dewdrops  quivering  in  a  blaze  of  unclouded 
light.  Like  a  dream  it  seemed  to  the  girls  to  be 
hurrying  away  at  five  o'clock,  from  an  unfin 
ished  breakfast,  from  Mrs.  Breynton's  gentle 
good-by,  Tom's  valuable  patronage  and  advice, 
and  Winnie's  reminder  that  he  was  five  years 
old,  and  that  to  the  candid  mind  it  was  perfectly 
clear  that  he  ought  "to  go  tuo-o-oc." 

Very  much  like  a  dream  was  it,  to  be  walking 
on  the  platform  at  the  station,  in  the  tucked 
skirts  and  new  brown  feather ;  to  watch  the 
checking  of  the  trunks  and  buying  of  the  tick 
ets,  quite  certain  -that  they  were  different  from 
all  other  checks  and  tickets  ;  to  find  how  inter 
esting  the  framed  railway  and  steamboat  guide 
for  the  Continent,  on  the  walls  of  the  little 
dingy  ladies'  room,  suddenly  became,  —  at 
least,  until  the  pleasing  discovery  that  it  was 
printed 'in  1849,  and  gave  minute  directions  for 
reaching  the  Territory  of  California. 

More  like  a  dream  was  it,  to  watch  the  people 
15 


226  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

that  lounged  or  worked  about  the  depot ;  the 
ticket-master,  who  had  stood  shut  up  there  just 
so  behind  the  little  window  for  twenty  years  ; 
the  baggage-master,  who  tossed  about  their 
trunks  without  even  thinking  of  the  jewelry- 
boxes  inside,  and  that  cologne-bottle  with  the 
shaky  cork ;  the  cross-eyed  woman  with  her 
knitting- work,  who  sold  sponge-cake  and  candy 
behind  a  very  small  counter ;  the  small  boys  in 
singularly  airy  jackets,  who  were  putting  pins 
and  marbles  on  the  track  for  the  train  to  run 
over ;  the  old  woman  across  the  street,  who  was 
hanging  out  her  clothes  to  dry  in  the  back  yard, 
just  as  if  it  had  been  nothing  but  a  common 
Monday,  and  nobody  had  been  going  to  Wash 
ington  ;  —  how  strange  it  seemed  that  they 
could  all  be  living  on  and  on  just  as  they  did 
every  day  ! 

"Oh,  just  think!  "  said  Gypsy,  with  wide- 
open  eyes.  "  Did  you  ever?  Isn't  it  funny? 
Oh,  I  wish  they  could  go  off  and  have  a  good 
time  too." 


GRAND   TIMES.  227 

Still  like  a  dream  did  it  seem,  when  the  train 
shrieked  up  and  shrieked  them  away,  over  and 
down  the  mountains,  through  sunlight  and 
shadow,  by  forest  and  river,  past  village  and 
town  and  city,  away  like  an  arrow,  with  York- 
bury  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind,  and  only 
the  wonderful,  untried  days  that  were  coming, 
to  think  about,  —  ah,  who  would  think  of  any 
thing  else,  that  could  have  such  days  ? 

Gypsy  made  her  entrance  into  Boston  in  a 
very  distingue  style.  It  chanced  that  just  after 
they  left  Fitchburg,  she  espied  the  stone  pier  of 
an  unfinished  bridge,  surmounted  by  a  remark 
able  boy  standing  on  his  head.  Up  went  the 
car- window,  and  out  went  her  own  head  and 
one  shoulder,  the  better  to  obtain  a  view  of  the 
phenomenon. 

"Look  out,  Gypsy,"  said  her  father,  unea« 
sily.  "  If  another  train  should  come  along, 
that  is  very  dangerous." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Gypsy,  with  a  twinkle  in  he* 
eye,  "  I  am  looking  out." 


228  GYPSY'S^COUSIN  JOY. 

Now,  as  Mr.  Breynton  had  been  on  the  con 
tinual  worry  about  her  ever  since  they  left  York- 
bury,  afraid  she  would  catch  cold  in  the  draft, 
lose  her  glove  out  of  the  window,  go  out  on  the 
platform,  or  fall  in  stepping  from  car  to  car, 
Gypsy  did  not  pay  the  immediate  heed  to  his 
warning  that  she  ought  to  have  done.  Before 
he  had  time  to  speak  again,  puff!  came  a  sharp 
gust  of  wind  and  away  went  her  pretty  turban 
with  its  new  brown  feather,  —  over  the  bridge 
and  down  into  the  river. 

"  There!"  said  Joy. 

"  Gypsy,  my  dear  !  "  said  her  father. 

"Well,  any  way,5'  said  Gypsy,  drawing  in 
her  head  in  the  utmost  astonishment,  "  I  can 
wear  a  handkerchief." 

So  into  Boston  she  came,  with  nothing  but  a 
handkerchief  tied  over  her  bright  tossing  hair. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  the  hackmcn  laugh  ! 

The  girls  had  made  an  agreement  with  Mrs. 
Breynton  to  keep  a  journal  while  they  were 


GRAND  TIMES.  229 

gone ;  send  her  what  they  could,  and  read  the 
rest  of  it  to  her  when  they  came  home.  She 
thought  in  this  way  they  would  remember  what 
they  saw  more  easily,  and  with  much  less  con 
fusion  and  mistake.  These  journals  will  give 
you  a  better  account  of  their  journey  than  I  can 
do. 

They  wrote  first  from  New  York.     This  is 
what  Joy  had  to  say  :  — 

"  NEW  YORK,  June  17,  — Tuesday  night. 
"  Oh,  I'm  so  tired  !  We've  been  «  on  the 
go  '  all  day.  You  see  we  got  into  Boston  last 
night,  and  took  the  boat  you  know,  just  as  we 
expected  to.  I've  been  on  so  forty  times  with 
father ;  he  used  to  take  me  ever  so  often  when 
he  went  on  business ;  so  I  was  just  as  used  to 
it,  and  went  right  to  sleep;  but  Gypsy,  you 
know,  she's  never  been  to  New  York  any  way, 
and  never  was  on  a  steamer,  and  you  ought  to 
have  seen  her  keep  hopping  up  in  her  berth  to 


230  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

look  at  things  and  listen  to  things  !  I  expected 
as  much  as  could  be  she'd  fall  down  on  me,  — 
I  had  the  under  berth,  — and  I  don't  believe  she 
slept  very  much.  I  don't  care  so  much  about 
New  York  as  she  does,  either,  because  Pve  seen 
it  all.  Uncle  thought  we'd  stay  here  a  day  so 
as  to  look  about.  He  wanted  Gypsy  to  see 
some  pictures  and  things.  To-morrow  morning 
real  early  we  go  to  Philadelphia.  You  don't 
know  what  a  lovely  bonnet  I  saw  up  Fifth 
Avenue  to-day.  It  was  white  crape,  with  the 
dearest  little  loves  of  forget-me-nots  outside  and 
in,  and  then  a  white  veil.  I'm  going  to  make 
father  buy  me  one  just  like  it  as  soon  as  I  go 
out  of  mourning. 

"  I  expect  this  isn't  very  much  like  a  journal, 
but  I'm  terribly  sleepy,  and  I  guess  I  must  go 
to  bed." 

GYPSY'S    JOURNAL. 

"BREVOORT  HOUSE,  Tuesday  Night. 
• ;  Mother,  Mother  Breynton  !     I  never  had 


GRAND   TIMES.  231 

such  a  good  time  in  all  my  life.  Oh,  I  forgot 
to  say  I  haven't  any  more  idea  how  to  write  a 
journal  than  the  man  in  the  moon.  I  meant  to 
put  that  at  the  beginning  so  you'd  know. 

66  Well,  we  came  on  by  boat,  and  you've  no 
idea  how  that  machinery  squeaked.  I  laughed 
and  laughed,  and  I  kept  waking  up  and  laugh 
ing. 

"  Then  —  oh,  did  Joy  tell  you  about  my  hat? 
I  suppose  you'll  be  sorry,  but  I  don't  believe 
you  can  help  laughing  possibly.  I  just  lost  it 
out  of  the  car  window,  looking  at  a  boy  out  in 
the  river  standing  on  its  head.  I  mean  the  boy 
was  on  his  head,  not  the  river,  and  I  had  to 
come  into  Boston  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief. 
Father  hurried  off  to  get  me  a  new  hat,  'cause 
there  wasn't  any  time  for  me  to  go  with  him, 
and  what  do  you  suppose  he  bought  ?  I  don't 
think  you'd  ever  get  over  it,  if  you  were  to  see 
it.  It  was  a  white  turban  with  a  black  eclgo 
rolled  up,  and  a  great  fringe  of  blue  beads,  and 


232  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

a  gieen  feather  !  He  said  he  bought  it  at  the 
first  milliner's  he  came  to,  and  I  should  think  hft 
did.  I  guess  you'd  better  believe  I  felt  nice  going 
all  the  way  to  New  York  in  it.  This  morning 
I  ripped  off  the  blue  fringe  the  very  first  thing, 
and  went  into  Broadway  (isn't  it  a  big  street? 
and  I  never  saw  such  tall  policemen  with  so  many 
whiskers  and  such  a  lot  of  ladies  to  be  helped 
across)  and  bought  some  black  velvet  ribbon 
with  a  white  edge  to  match  the  straw  :  the  green 
feather  wasn't  nice  enough  to  wear.  I  knew  I 
oughtn't  to  have  lost  the  other,  and  father  paid 
five  dollars  for  this  horrid  old  thing,  so  I 
thought  I  wouldn't  take  it  to  a  milliner.  I  just 
trimmed  it  up  myself  in  a  rosette,  and  it  doesn't 
look  so  badly  after  all.  But  oh,  my  pretty 
br  jwn  feather  !  Isn't  it  a  shame  ? 

' '  Father  took  us  to  the  Aspinwall  picture- 
gallery  to-day.  Joy  didn't  care  about  it,  but  I 
liked  it  ever  so  much,  only  there  were  ever  so 
many  Virgin  Marys  up  in  the  clouds,  that 


GRAND   TIMES.  233 

looked  as  if  they'd  been  washed  out  and  hung 
up  to  dry.  Besides,  I  didn't  understand  what 
all  the  little  angels  were  kicking  at.  Father 
said  they  were  from  the  old  masters,  and  there 
was  a  lady  with  a  pink  parasol,  that  screamed 
right  out,  and  said  they  were  sweet  pretty.  I 
suppose  when  I'm  grown  up  I  shall  have  to 
think  so  too.  I  saw  a  picture  of  a  little  boy 
out  in  the  woods,  asleep,  that  I  liked  ever  so 
much  better. 

"  We've  seen  ever  so  many  other  things,  but 
I  haven't  half  time  to  tell  you  about  them  all. 

"  We're  at  the  Brevoort  House,  and  I  tell 
you  I  was  frightened  when  I  first  came  in,  it's 
so  handsome.  We  take  our  rooms,  and  then 
just  go  down  into  the  most  splendid  dining-hall, 
and  sit  down  at  little  tables  and  order  what  we 
want,  and  don't  pay  for  anything  but  that. 
Father  says  it's  the  European  plan.  Our  rooms 
are  be;  utiful.  Don't  you  tell  anybody,  but  I'm 
almost  afraid  of  the  waiters  and  chamber- 


234  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

maids  ;  they  look  as  if  they  felt  so  grand.  But 
Joy,  she  just  rings  the  bell  and  makes  them 
bring  her  up  some  water,  and  orders  them  round 
like  anything.  Joy  wanted  to  go  to  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel,  but  father  said  it  was  too  noisy. 
He  says  this  is  noisy  enough,  but  he  wanted  us 
to  see  what  a  handsome  hotel  is  like,  and  — 
and  —  why!  I'm  almost  asleep." 

JOY'S  JOURNAL. 
"  PHILADELPHIA,  Wednesday,  June  18. 
"  We  came  to  Philadelphia  this  morning, 
and  we  almost  choked  with  the  dust,  riding 
through  New  Jersey.  We're  at  a  boarding- 
house,  —  a  new  one  just  opened.  They  call  it 
the  Markoe  House.  (I  haven't  the  least  idea 
whether  I've  spelled  it  right.)  Uncle  didn't 
«leep  very  well  last  night,  so  he  wanted  a  quiet 
place,  and  thought  the  hotels  were  noisy.  He 
thought  once  of  going  to  La  Pierre,  but  gave 
*t  up.  Father  used  to  go  to  the  Continental,  I 


GRAND   TIMES.  235 

know,  because  I've  heard  him  say  so.     I'm  too 
tired  to  write  any  more." 

GYPSY'S    JOURNAL. 
"  THURSDAY,  June  something  or  other. 

"  We  stayed  over  a  day  here,  — oh,  *  here* 
is  Philadelphia,  —  because  father  wanted  us  to 
see  the  city.  It's  real  funny.  People  have 
white  wooden  shutters  outside  their  windows, 
and  when  anybody  dies  they  keep  a  black  rib  oon 
hanging  out  on  them.  Then  the  streets  are  so 
broad.  I  saw  four  Quakers  this  morning. 
We've  been  out  to  see  Girard  College,  where 
they  take  care  of  orphans,  and  the  man  that 
built  it,  Mr.  Stephen  Girard,  he  wouldn't  ever 
let  any  minister  step  inside  of  it.  Wasn't  it 
funny  in  him  ? 

"  Then  we  went  over  to  Fairmount,  besides. 
Fairmount  is  where  they  bring  up  the  water 
from  the  Schuylkill  river,  to  supply  the  city. 
There  is  machinery  to  force  it  up — great 


236  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

wheels  and  things.  Then  it  makes  a  sort  of  a 
pond  on  top  of  a  hill ,  and  there  are  statues  and 
trees,  and  it's  real  beautiful. 

' '  Father  wanted  to  take  us  out  to  Laurel 
Hill ;  —  that's  the  cemetery,  he  says,  very 
much  like  Mount  Auburn,  near  Boston,  where 
Aunt  Miranda  is  buried.  But  we  shan't  have 
time." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"FRIDAY  NIGHT. 

"  In  Washington  !  in  Washington  !  and  I'm 
too  sleepy  to  write  a  thing  about  it." 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

A  TELEGRAM. 

JOY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  SATURDAY,  June  21st. 
JELL,  we  are  here  at  last,  and  it  is  re 
ally  very  nice.  I  didn't  suppose  I 
should  like  it  so  much  ;  but  there  is  a 
great  .deal  to  be  seen.  We  stopped 
over  one  train  at  Baltimore.  It  rained  like 
everything,  but  uncle  wanted  us  to  see  the  city. 
So  we  took  a  hack  and  drove  about,  and  saw 
Washington's  monument.  I  suppose  I  ought 
to  describe  it,  but  it  was  so  rainy  I  didn't  notice 
it  very  much.  I  think  monuments  look  like 
big  ghosts,  and  then  I'm  always  afraid  they'll 
tumble  over  on  me. 

237 


238  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Gypsy  said  she  wondered  whether  George 
Washington  ever  looked  down  out  of  heaven  to 
see  the  monuments,  and  cities,  and  towns,  and 
all  the  things  that  are  named  after  him,  and 
what  he  thought  about  it.  Wasn't  it  queer 
in  her? 

"  We  stopped  at  a  great  cathedral  there  is  in 
Baltimore,  too.  It  was  very  handsome,  only 
so  dark.  I  saw  some  Irish  women  saying 
their  prayers  round  in  the  pews,  and  there  was 
a  dish  of  holy  water  by  the  door,  and  they  all 
dipped  their  fingers  in  it  and  crossed  themselves 
as  they  went  in  and  out. 

"  We  saw  ever  so  many  negroes  in  Balti 
more,  too.  From  the  time  you  get  to  Philadel 
phia  on  to  Washington,  there  are  ever  so 
many;  it's  so  different  from  JNew  England. 
I  nev>?r  saw  so  many  there  in  all  my  life  as  we 
have  seen  these  few  days.  Gypsy  doubled  up 
her  fist  and  looked  real  angry  when  she  saw 
them  sometimes,  and  said,  "  Just  to  think! 


A   TELEGRAM.  239 

perhaps  that  man  is  a  slave,  or  that  little  girl ! ' 
But  I  never  thought  about  it  somehow.  To 
morrow  I  will  write  about  Washington.  Bal 
timore  has  taken  up  all  my  room." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 
WILLARD'S  HOTEL,  Saturday  Night. 

"  You  ought  to  have  seen  the  yellow  omnibus 
we  came  up  from  the  depot  in  !  Such  a  look 
ing  thing !  It  was  ever  so  long,  something 
like  a  square  stove  pipe,  pulled  out ;  and  it  was 
real  crowded,  and  the  way  it  jolted  I  There 
were  several  of  them  there  waiting  for  the  pas 
sengers.  I  should  think  they  might  have  some 
decent,  comfortable  horse-cars,  the  way  they  do 
in  other  cities.  I  think  it's  very  nice  at  Phil 
adelphia.  They  come  to  the  depots  at  every 
train,  and  go  down  at  every  train.  Father  says 
the  horse-car  arrangements  are  better  in  Phil 
adelphia  than  they  are  in  Boston  or  New  York. 

"It  seems  v^ry  funny  here,  to  be  in  a  city 


240  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

that  is  under  military  rule.  There  are  a  great 
many  soldiers,  and  barracks  where  they  sleep ; 
and  a  great  many  tents  too.  There  are  forts, 
father  says,  all  around  the  city,  and  Monday 
we  can  see  some  of  them.  While  we  were  rid 
ing  up  from  the  depot  I  saw  six  soldiers  march 
ing  along  with  a  Rebel  prisoner.  Father  says 
they  found  him  hanging  around  the  Capitol, 
and  that  he  was  a  Eebel  spy.  He  had  on  a 
ragged  coat,  and  a  great  many  black  whiskers, 
and  he  was  swearing  terribly.  I  didn't  feel 
sorry  for  him  a  bit,  and  I  hope  they'll  hang 
him,  or  shoot  him,  or  something;  but  father 
says  he  doesn't  know. 

"  We  are  at  Willard's  Hotel.  Father  came 
here  for  the  same  reason  he  went  to  the  Bre- 
voort,  —  so  we  might  see  what  it  was  like.  It 
is  very  large,  and  so  many  stairs  !  and  such 
long  dining-tables,  and  so  many  men  eating  at 
them.  We  didn't  have  as  nice  a  supper  as  we 
did  in  New  York. 


A   TELEGRAM.  241 

"  It  is  late  now,  and  the  lamps  are  lighted  in 
the  street.  I  can  see  from  the  window  the 
people  hurrying  by,  and  some  soldiers,  and  one 
funny  little  tired  mule  drawing  a  great  wagon 
of  something. 

"  There!  he's  stopped  and  wont  move  an 
inch,  and  the  man  is  whipping  him  awfully. 
The  wicked  old  thing  ?***** 

"  I  was  just  going  to  open  the  window  and 
tell  him  to  stop,  but  father  says  I  musn't. 

"  As  we  rode  up  from  the  depot,  I  saw  a 
great  round  dim  thing  away  in  the  dark. 
Father  says  it  is  the  dome  of  the  Capitol." 

GYPSY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  After  Sundown,  SUNDAY  NIGHT. 
* '  Father  says  it  isn't  any  harm  to  write  a 
little  about  what  we  saw  to-day,  because  we 
haven't  been  anywhere  but  to  church. 

4  *  The   horrid   old   gong   woke   me  up    real 
early  this  morning.     I  should  have  thought  it 
16 


242 

very  late  at  home,  but  they  don't  have  breakfast 
in  hotels  till  eight  o'clock  hardly  ever,  and  you 
can  get  up  all  along  till  eleven,  just  as  you 
like.  This  morning  we  were  so  tired  that  we 
didn't  want  to  get  up  a  bit. 

"  There  was  a  waiter  at  the  table  that  tipped 
over  a  great  plateful  of  beefsteak  and  gravy 
right  on  to  a  lady's  blue  silk  morning-dress. 
She  was  a  Senator's  wife,  and  she  jumped  like 
anything.  Joy  said,  *  What  a  shame  ! '  but 
I  think  it's  real  silly  in  people  to  wear  blue 
silk  morning-dresses,  because  then  you  can't 
wear  anything  any  nicer,  and  you  won't  feel 
dressed  up  in  the  afternoon  a  bit.  —  Oh,  I  for 
got  t  this  isn't  Sunday  ! 

"  Well,  we  all  went  to  church  this  morning 
to  Dr.  Gurley's  church.  Dr.  Gurley  is  a  Pres 
byterian,  father  says.  I  don't  care  anything 
about  that,  but  I  thought  you  might.  That  is 
the  church  President  Lincoln  goes  to,  and  we 
went  there  so  as  to  see  him. 


A   TELEGKAM.  243 

*  -  He  sat  clear  up  in  front,  and  I  couldn't  see 
anything  all  through  the  sermon  but  the  back 
of  his  head.  We  sat  'most  down  by  the  door 
Besides,  there  was  a  little  boy  in  the  pew  next 
ours  that  kept  opening  his  father's  umbrella 
right  over  the  top  of  the  pew,  and  made  me 
laugh.  He  was  just  about  as  big  as  Winnie. 
Oh,  they  say  slip  here  instead  of  pew,  just  as 
they  do  in  Boston.  I  don't  see  what's  the  use. 
Joy  doesn't  like  it  because  I  keep  saying  pew. 
She  says  it's  countrified.  I  think  one  is  just 
as  good  as  another. 

"  Well,  you  see,  we  just  waited,  and  father 
looked  at  the  minister,  and  Joy  and  I  kept 
watching  the  President's  kid  gloves.  They 
were  black  because  he's  in  mourning  for  his 
little  boy,  and  he  kept  putting  his  hand  to  his 
face  a  great  deal.  He  moved  round  too, 
ever  so  much.  I  kept  thinking  how  tired  he 
was,  working  away  all  the  week,  taking  ca*e 
of  those  2;reat  armies,  and  being  scolded  when 


244  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

we  got  beaten,  just  as  if  it  were  all  his  fault. 
I  think  it  is  real  good  in  him  to  come  to  church 
anyway.  If  I  were  President  and  had  so  much 

•% 

io  do,  and  got  so  tired,  I'd  stay  at  home  Sun 
days  and  go  to  sleep, — if  you'd  let  me.  I 
think  President  Lincoln  must  be  a  very  good 
man.  I'm  sure  he  is,  and  I'll  tell  you  why. 

"  After  church  we  waited  so  as  to  see  him. 
There  were  ever  so  many  strangers  sitting  there 
together,  —  about  fifty  I  should  say,  but  father 
laughed  and  said  twenty.  Well,  we  all  stood 
up,  and  he  began  to  walk  down  the  aisle  with 
his  wife,  and  I  saw  his  face,  and  he  isn't  home 
ly,  but  he  looks  real  kind,  and  —  oh,  mother  ! 
so  sober  and  sad  !  and  I  Imow  he's  a  good  man, 
and  that's  why. 

"Mrs.  Lincoln  was  dressed  all  in  black, 
vvith  a  long  crape  veil.  She  kind  of  peeked 
out  under  it,  but  I  couldn't  see  her  very  well, 
and  I  didn't  think  mu:h  about  her  because  I 
was  looking  at  him. 


A   TELEGRAM.  245 

61  Well  then,  you  see  there  were  some  people 
m  front  of  me,  and  I  couldn't  see  very  well,  so 
I  just  stepped  up  on  a  cricket  so's  tp  be  tall, 
and  what  do  you  think  ?  When  the  President 
was  opposite,  just  opposite,  and  looked  round 
at  us,  that  old  cricket  had  to  tip  over,  and 
down  I  went,  flat,  in  the  bottom  of  the  pew  ! 

* '  I  guess  my  cheeks  were  as  red  as  two  beets 
when  I  got  up ;  and  the  President  saw  me, 
and  he  looked  right  at  me,  —  right  into  my 
eyes  and  laughed.  He  did  now,  really,  and  he 
looked  as  if  he  couldn't  help  it  possibly. 

« «  When  he  laughs  it  looks  like  a  little  sun 
beam  or  something,  running  all  over  his  face. 

"  Father  says  we  shan't  probably  see  him 
again.  They  don't  have  any  receptions  now  at 
the  White  HouSe,  because  they  are  in  mourn 
ing. 

6  <  We  went  to  a  Quaker  meeting  this  after 
noon,  but  there  isn't  any  time  to  tell  about 
it." 


246  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY, 

JOY'S  JOURNAL. 

"  MONDAY,  June  23. 

"  Oh  dear  me  !  We've  seen  so  much  to-day 
I  can't  remember  half  of  it.  I  shall  write  what 
I  can,  and  Gypsy  may  write  the  rest. 

'  *  In  the  first  place  we  went  to  the  Capitol. 
It's  built  of  white  marble,  and  it's  very  large. 
There  are  quantities  of  long  steps  on  different 
sides  of  it,  and  so  many  doors,  and  passages, 
and  rooms,  and  pillars.  I  never  could  find  my 
way  out,  in  the  world,  alone.  I  wonder  the 
Senators  don't  get  lost  sometimes. 

"  About  the  first  place  you  come  into  is  a 
round  room,  called  the  rotunda.  Uncle  says 
rotunda  means  round.  There  are  some  pictures 
there.  One  of  them  is  Washington  crossing 
the  Delaware,  with  great  cakes  of  ice  beating 
up  against  the  boat.  One  of  the  men  has  a 
flag  in  his  hand.  Gypsy  and  I  liked  it  ever  so 
much. 

"  Oh  !  —  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  isn't  quite 


A  TELEGRAM.  247 

finished.     There  is  scaffolding  up  there,  and  it 
doesn't  look  very  pretty. 

"  "Well,  then  we  went  up  stairs,  and  I  never 
saw  such  handsome  stairs  !  They  are  marble, 
and  so  wide !  and  the  banisters  are  the  most 
elegant  variegated  marble,  —  a  sort  of  dark 
brown,  and  they  are  so  broad  !  Why,  I  should 
think  they  were  a  foot  and  a  half  broad,  but 
then  I  don't  know  exactly  how  much  a  foot  is. 

"  We  went  into  two  rooms  that  Gypsy  and  I 
both  liked  best  of  anything.  One  is  called  the 
Marble  Room,  and  the  other  the  Fresco  Room. 
The  Marble  Room  is  all  made  of  marble,  — 
walls,  floor,  window-sills,  everything  but  the 
furniture.  The  marble  is  of  different  colors 
and  patterns,  and  just  as  beautiful !  The  fur 
niture  is  covered  with  drab  damask. 

"  The  Fresco  Room  is  all  made  of  pictures. 
Frescoes  are  pictures  painted  on  the  ceilir.gs, 
Uncle  says.  He  says  Michael  Angelo,  the 
great  sculptor  and  artist,  used  to  paint  a  gratf 


248  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

many,  and  that  they  are  very  beautiful.  He 
says  he  had  to  lie  flat  on  scaffoldings,  while  he 
was  painting  the  domes  of  great  churches,  and 
that,  by  looking  up  so,  in  that  position,  he  hurt 
his  eyes  very  much.  This  room  I  started  to 
dell  about,  is  real  pretty.  I've  almost  forgotten 
wnat  the  furniture  is  covered  with.  Seems  to 
me  it  is  yellow  damask,  or  else  it's  the  Marble 
Room  that's  yellow,  and  this  is  drab,  — or  else 
—  I  declare  !  We've  seen  so  much  to-day,  I've 
got  everything  mixed  up  ! 

"  Uncle  has  just  been  correcting  our  journals, 
and  he  says  it  isn't  proper  to  say  «  I've  got,' 
but  I  ought  to  say  '  I  have.' 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  to  say  that  the  Senators'  wives 
and  daughters  who  are  boarding  here,  are  very 
stylish  people.  When  I  grow  up  I  mean  to 
marry  a  Senator,  and  come  to  Washington,  and 
give  great  parties. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  don't  hear  from  father. 
YOL  know  it's  nearly  three  weeks  now  since  I 


A  TELEGRAM.  249 

had  a  letter.     I  thought  I  should  have  one  last 
week,  just  as  much  as  could  be." 

GYPSY'S   JOURNAL. 

Eight  o'clock,  MONDAY  XIGHT. 
"  Joy  has  told  ever  so  much  about  the  Cap 
itol,  and  I  don't  want  to  tell  it   all  over  again. 
If  I  forget  it,  I  can  look  at  her  journal  you 

know. 

"  But  she  didn't  tell  about  Congress.  Well, 
you  see  if  we'd  come  a  little  later  we  shouldn't 
have  seen  them  at  all ;  and  if  it  didn't  happen 
to  be  a  long  session  we  shouldn't  see  them  so 
late  in  the  season.  But  then  we  did.  I'm  very 
glad,  only  I  thought  it  was  rather  stupid. 

" 1  liked  the  halls,  any  way.  They're  splen 
did,  only  there's  a  great  deal  of  yellow  about 
them ;  and  then  there  are  some  places  for  pic 
tures,  and  the  pictures  aren't  put  up  yet. 

"  There's  a  gallery  runs  round,  where  visitors 
eit.  The  Senators  and  Eepresentativcs  are 


250  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

down  on  the  floor.  We  went  into  the  Senate 
first.  They  sat  in  seats  that  curved  round,  and 
the  President  of  the  Senate, — that's  Vice- 
President  Hamlin,  —  he  sits  in  a  sort  of  little 
pulpit,  and  looks  after  things.  If  anybody 
wants  to  speak,  they  have  to  ask  him,  and  he 
says,  '  The  Senator  from  so-and-so  has  the 
floor.'  Then  when  they  get  into  a  fight,  he  has 
to  settle  it.  Isn't  it  funny,  in  such  great  grown 
up  men  to  quarrel?  But  they  do,  like  every 
thing.  There  was  one  man  got  real  mad  at 
Mr.  Sumner  to-day. 

' '  I  didn't  care  about  what  they  were  talking 
about,  but  it  was  fun  to  look  down  and  see  all  the 
desks  and  papers,  and  some  of  them  were  just 
as  -sleepy  as  could  be.  Then  they  kept  whisper 
ing  to  each  other  while  a  man  was  speaking,  and 
sometimes  they  talked  right  out  loud.  If  I 
should  do  that  at  school,  I  guess  Miss  Cardrew 
would  give  it  to  me.  But  what  I  thought  was 
queerest  of  all,  they  all  talked  right  at  the  Vice- 


A   TELEGRAM.  251 

President,  and  kept  saying  'Mr.  President,' 
and  <  Sir,'  just  as  if  there  weren't  anybody  else 
jfc  the  room. 

"  Some  of  the  Senators  are  handsome,  and  a 
good  many  more  aren't.  Joy  stood  up  for  Mr. 
Sumner  because  he  came  from  Massachusetts. 
He  is  a  nice-looking  man,  and  I  had  to  say  so. 
He  has  a  high  forehead,  and  he  looks  exactly 
like  a  gentleman.  Besides,  father  says  he  has 
done  a  noble  work  for  the  country  and  the 
slaves,  and  the  rest  of  New  England  ought  to 
be  just  as  proud  of  him  as  Massachusetts. 

"We  went  into  the  House  of  Kepresenta- 
tives,  too,  and  it  was  a  great  deal  noisier  there 
than  it  was  in  the  Senate,  there  were  so  many 
more  of  them.  I  saw  one  man  eating  peanuts. 
Most  all  of  them  looked  hungry.  The  man 
that  sits  up  behind  the  desk  and  takes  care  of 
the  House,  is  called  the  Speaker.  I  think  it's 
real  funny,  because  he  never  makes  a  speech. 
As  we  came  out  of  the  Capitol,  father  turned 


252  GYPSY'S  COUSIN 

round  and  looked  back  and  said,  «  Just  think ! 
All  the  laws  that  govern  this  great  country  come 
out  from  there.'  He  said  some  more  about  it, 
too,  but  there  was  the  funniest  little  negro  boy 
peeking  through  the  fence,  and  I  didn't  hear. 

"  We  went  to  the  White  House  next. 
Father  says  it's  something  like  a  palace,  only 
some  palaces  are  handsomer.  It's  white  marble 
like  the  Capitol.  We  went  up  the  steps,  and  a 
man  let  us  right  in.  We  saw  two  rooms.  One 
is  called  the  Red  Room  and  one  the  Green 
Room.  The  Red  Room  is  furnished  in  red 
damask  and  the  Green  is  all  green.  They  were 
very  handsome,  only  all  the  furniture  was  ranged 
along  the  walls,  and  that  made  it  seem  so  big 
and  empty.  Father  says  that's  because  these 
rooms  are  used  for  receptions,  and  there  is  such 
a  crowd. 

*'  There  is  a  Blue  Room,  too,  that  visitors 
are  sometimes  let  into.  Father  asked  the  dcor- 
keeper ;  but  he  said,  *  The  family  were  at  break- 


A   TELEGRAM. 


253 


fast  in  it.'  That  was  eleven  o'clock !  I  guesa 
I'd  like  to  be  a  President's  daughter,  and  not 
have  to  get  up.  We  didn't  see  anything  more 
of  President  Lincoln. 

"  We've  been  going  all  day,  and  we've  been 
Vo  the  Patent  Office  and  the  Smithsonian  Insti 
tute,  but  I'm  too  tired  to  say  anything  about 
them." 

GYPSY'S   JOURNAL. 

•«  TUESDAY. 

"We've  been  over  to  Alexandria — that's 
across  the  Potomac  Biver  —  in  the  funniest 
little  steamboat  you  ever  saw.  When  you 
went  in  or  came  out  from  the  cabin,  you  had  to 
crawl  under  a  stove-pipe.  It  wasn't  high 
enough  to  walk  straight.  I  don't  like  Alexan 
dria.  It's  all  mud  and  secessionists.  People 

3 

looked  cross,  and  Joy  was  afraid  they'd  shoot 
us.  We  saw  the  house  where  Col.  Ellsworth 
vras  shot  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  The 


254  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

man  was  very  polite,  and  showed  us  round. 
The  plastering  around  the  place  where  he  fell, 
and  all  the  stairs,  had  been  cut  away  by  people 
as  relics.  We  saw  the  church  where  Greu. 
Washington  used  to  go,  too." 

JOY'S   JOURNAL. 

"  WEDNESDAY  NIGHT. 

"  We  are  just  home  from  Mount  Vernon, 
and  we've  had  a  splendid  time.  We  went  in  a 
steamboat ;  it's  some  ways  from  Washington. 
You  can  go  by  land,  if  you  want  to.  It  was 
real  pleasant.  Gen.  Washington's  house  was 
there,  —  a  queer,  low  old  place,  and  we  went 
all  over  it.  There  was  a  nice  garden,  and 
beautiful  grounds,  with  woods  clear  down  to  the 
water.  He  is  buried  on  the  place  under  a 
marble  tomb,  with  a  sort  of  brick  shed  all 
around  it.  There  is  nothing  on  tLe  toinb  but 
the  word  WASHINGTON.  His  wife  is  buried  by 
him,  and  it  says  on  hers,  MAKTHA,  CONSORT  OP 


A   TELEGRAM.  255 

WASHINGTON.  All  the  gentlemen  took  off 
their  hats  while  we  stood  there.  To-morrow 
we  are  £oin^  to  Manassas,  if  there  is  a  boat. 

O  O  * 

Uncle  is  going  to  aee.  I  am  having  a  splendid 
time.  Won't  it  be  nice  telling  father  all  about 
it  when  he  comes  home  ?  " 

Joy  laid  down  her  pen  suddenly.  She  heard 
a  strange  noise  in  her  uncle's  room  where  he  and 
Gypsy  were  sitting.  It  was  a  sort  of  cry,  —  a 
low,  smothered  cry,  as  of  some  one  in  grief  or 
pain.  She  shut  up  her  portfolio  and  hurried  in. 
Mr.  Breynton  held  a  paper  in  his  hand.  Gypsy 
was  looking  over  his  shoulder,  and  her  face  was 
very  pale. 

"  What  is  it?     What's  the  matter?  " 

Nobody  answered. 

"What's  happened?"  repeated  Joy,  impa 
tiently. 

Mr.  Breynton  turned  away  his  face.  Gypsy 
broke  out  crying. 

<*  Why,  what  is  the  matter?  '*  said  Joy,  look 
Ing  alarmed. 


256  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  Joy,  my  poor  child  —  "began  her  uncle. 
But  Gypsy  sprang  forward  suddenly,  and  threw 
her  arms  around  Joy's  neck. 

"  Oh,  Joy,  Joy,  — your  father  !  " 

* «  Let  me  see  that  paper  ! "  Joy  caught  it 
before  they  could  stop  her,  opened  it,  read  it,  — 
dropped  it  slowly.  It  was  a  telegram  from 
Yorkbury :  — 

"  Boston  papers  say  Joy's  father  died  in  France 
two  weeks  ago." 


CHAPTEE    XIII. 

A  SUNDAY  NIGHT. 

were  all  together  in  the  parlor  at 
Yorkbury, —  Joy  very  still,  with  her 
head  in  her  auntie'8  lap.  It  was  two 
weeks  now  since  that  night  when  she 
eat  writing  in  her  journal  at  Washington,  and 
planning  so  happily  for  the  trip  to  Manassas 
that  had  never  been  taken. 

They  had  been  able  to  learn  little  about  her 
father's  death  as  yet.  A  Paris  paper  reported, 
and  Boston  papers  copied,  the  statement  that 
an  American  of  his  name,  stopping  at  an 
obscure  French  town,  was  missing  for  two 
days,  and  found  on  the  third,  murdered,  robbed, 
horribly  disfigured.  Mr.  George  Breynton  had 
17  257 


258  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

been  travelling  alone  in  the  interior  of  the 
country,  and  had  written  home  that  he  should 
be  in  this  town  —  St.  Pierre  —  at  precisely  the 
time  given  as  the  date  of  the  American's  death, 
So  his  long  silence  was  awfully  explained  to 
Joy.  The  fact  that  the  branch  of  his  firm  with 
which  he  had  frequent  business  correspondence, 
had  not  received  the  least  intelligence  of  him 
for  several  weeks,  left  no  doubt  of  the  mournful 
truth.  Something  had  gone  wrong  in  the  ship 
ping  of  certain  goods,  which  had  required  his 
immediate  presence  ;  they  had  therefore  written 
and  telegraphed  to  him  repeatedly,  but  there 
had  been  no  reply.  Day  by  day  the  ominous 
silence  had  shaded  into  alarm,  had  deepened 
into  suspense,  had  grown  into  certainty. 

Mr.  Breynton  had  fought  against  conviction 
as  long  as  he  could,  had  clung  to  all  possibili 
ties  and  impossibilities  of  doubt,  but  even  he 
had  given  up  all  hope. 

Dead, — dead,  without  a  sign;  without  one 


A   SUNDAY    NIGHT.    .  25;) 

last  word  to  the  child  waiting  for  him  across  the 
seas  ;  without  one  last  kiss  or  blessing  ;  dead  by 
ruffian  hands,  lying  now  in  an  unknown,  lonely 
grave.  It  seemed  to  Joy  as  if  her  heart  must 
break.  She  tried  to  fly  from  the  horrible, 
haunting  thought,  to  forget  it  in  her  dreams,  to 
drown  it  in  her  books  and  play.  But  she  could 
not  leave  it ;  it  would  not  leave  her.  It  must 
be  taken  down  into  her  heart  and  kept  there ; 
she  and  it  must  be  always  alone  together ;  no 
one  could  come  between  them ;  no  one  could 
help  her. 

And  so  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  take  that 
dreary  journey  home  from  Washington,  come 
quietly  back  to  Yorkbury,  come  back  without 
father  or  mother,  into  the  home  that  must  be 
hers  now,  the  only  one  left  her  in  all  the  wide 
world;  nothing  to  do  but  to  live  on,  and  never 
to  see  him  any  more,  never  to  kiss  him,  never 
to  creep  up  into  his  arms,  or  hear  his  brave, 
merry  voice  calling  "  Joyce,  Joyce,"  as  it  used 


260  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

to  call  about  the  old  home.  No  one  called  her 
Joyce  but  her  father.  No  one  should  ever  call 
her  so  again. 

Tom  called  her  so  one  day,  never  thinking. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  that,  —  not  that 
name,"  said  Joy,  flushing  suddenly;  then  paling 
and  turning  away. 

She  was  very  still  now.  Since  the  first  few 
days  she  seldom  cried ;  or  if  she  did,  it  was 
when  she  was  away  alone  in  the  dark,  with  no 
one  to  see  her.  She  had  grown  strangely 
silent,  strangely  gentle  and  thoughtful  for  Joy. 
Sorrow  was  doing  for  her  what  it  does  for  so 
many  older  and  better ;  and  in  her  frightened, 
Childish  way,  Joy  was  suffering  all  that  she 
could  suffer. 

Perhaps  only  Gypsy  knew  just  how  much  it 
was.  The  two  girls  had  been  drawn  very  near  to 
each  other  these  past  few  weeks.  It  seemed  to 
Gypsy  as  if  the  grief  were  almost  her  own,  she 
felt  so  sorry  for  Joy  ;  she  had  grown  very  gentle 


A   SUNDAY   NIGHT.  261 

to  her,  very  patient  with  her,  very  thoughtful  for 
her  comfort.  They  were  little  ways  in  which 
she  could  show  this,  but  these  little  ways  are 
better  than  any  words.  When  she  left  her  own 
merry  play  with  the  girls  to  hunt  up  Joy  sitting 
somewhere  alone  and  miserable,  and  coax  her 
out  into  the  sunlight,  or,  sit  beside  her  and  tell 
funny  stories  till  the  smiles  came  wandering 
back  against  their  will  to  Joy's  pale  face ;  when 
she  slid  her  strawberry  tarts  into  Joy's  desk  at 
recess,  or  stole  up-stairs  after  her  with  a  handful 
of  peppermints  bought  with  her  own  little 
weekly  allowance,  or  threw  her  arms  around  her 
so  each  night  with  a  single,  silent  kiss,  or  came 
up  sometimes  in  the  dark  and  cried  with  her, 
without  saying  a  word,  Joy  was  not  unmindful 
nor  ungrateful.  She  noticed  it  all,  everything  ; 
out  of  her  grief  she  thanked  her  with  all  her 
heart,  and  treasured  up  in  her  memory  to  love 
for  all  her  life  the  Gypsy  of  these  sad  days. 
They  were  in  the  parlor  together  on  this 


262 

Sunday  night,  as  I  said,  —  all  except  Mr. 
Breynton,  who  had  been  for  several  days  in 
Boston,  settling  his  brother's  affairs,  and  making 
arrangements  to  sell  the  house  for  Joy ;  it  was 
her  house  now,  that  handsome  place  in  Beacon 
Street,  and  that  seemed  so  strange,  —  strange 
to  Joy  most  of  all. 

They  were  grouped  around  the  room  in  the 
fading  western  light,  Gypsy  and  Tom  together 
by  the  window,  Winnie  perched  demurely  on 
the  piano-stool,  and  Joy  on  the  cricket  at  Mrs. 
Breynton's  feet.  The  faint  light  was  touching 
her  face,  and  her  mournful  dress  with  its  heavy 
crape  trimmings,  — there  were  no  white  chenille 
and  silver  brooches  now ;  Joy  had  laid  these 
things  aside  of  her  own  wish.  It  is  a  very  small 
matter,  to  be  sure,  this  mourning ;  but  in  Joy's 
ease  it  mirrored  her  real  grief  very  completely. 
The  something  which  she  had  nut  felt  when  her 
mother  died,  she  felt  now,  to  the  full.  She  had 
a  sort  of  notion,  —  an  ignorant,  childish  notion, 


A    SUNDAY   NIGHT.  263 

but  very  real  to  her, — that  it  was  wicked  to 
wear  bo\\s  and  hair-ribbons  now. 

She  had  been  sitting  so  for  some  time,  with 
her  head  in  her  aunt's  lap,  quite  silent,  her  eyes 
looking  off  through  the  window. 

"  Why  not  have  a  little  singing?  "  said  Mrs. 
Breynton,  in  her  pleasant,  hushed  voice; — it 
was  always  a  little  different  somehow,  Sunday 
nights  ;  a  little  more  quiet. 

Gypsy  went  to  the  piano,  and  usurped 
Winnie's  throne  on  the  stool,  much  to  that 
young  gentleman's  disgust. 

«  What  shall  it  be,  mother?  " 

"  Joy's  hymn,  dear." 

Gypsy  began,  without  further  explanation,  to 
play  a  low,  sweet  prelude,  and  then  they  sang 
through  the  hymn  that  Joy  had  learned  and 
loved  in  these  few  desolate  weeks  : 

"  There  is  an  eye  that  never  sleeps 

Beneath  the  wing  of  night ; 
There  is  an  ear  that  never  shuts 
When  sink  the  beams  of  light. 


264  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  There  is  an  arm  that  never  tires 

When  human  strength  gives  way; 
There  is  a  love  that  never  fails 
When  earthly  loves  decay." 

Joy  tried  to  sing,  but  just  there  she  broke 
down.  Gypsy's  voice  faltered  a  little,  and  Mrs. 
Breynton  sang  very  softly  to  the  end. 

After  that  they  were  all  still ;  Joy  had  hidden 
her  face.  Tom  began  to  hum  over  the  tune 
uneasily,  in  his  deep  bass.  A  sudden  sob  broke 
into  it. 

"  This  is  what  makes  it  all  so  different." 

"What,  dear?" 

"  The  singing,  and  the  prayers,  and  the 
Sunday  nights ;  it's  been  making  me  think 
about  being  a  good  girl,  ever  since  I've  been 
here.  We  never  had  any  at  home.  Father — " 

But  she  did  not  finish.  She  rose  and  went 
over  to  the  western  window,  away  from  the 
rest,  where  no  one  could  see  her  face. 

The  light  was  dimming  fast ;  it  was  nearly 


A    SUNDAY   NIGHT.  265 

dark  now,  and  the  crickets  were  chirping  in  the 
distant  meadows. 

Tom  coughed,  and  came  very  near  trying  to 
whistle.  Gypsy  screwed  the  piano-stool  round 
with  a  sudden  motion,  and  went  over  to  where 
Joy  stood. 

Tom  and  his  mother  began  to  talk  in  a  low 
voice,  and  the  two  girls  were  as  if  alone. 

The  first  thing  Gypsy  did,  was  to  put  her 
arms  round  Joy's  neck  and  kiss  her.  Joy  hid 
her  face  on  her  shoulder  and  cried  softly. 
Then  Gypsy  choked  a  little,  and  for  a  while 
they  cried  together. 

"  You  see  I  am  so  sorry,"  said  Gypsy. 

"  I  know  it,  —  I  know  it.     Oh,  Gypsy,  if  I 

could  see  him  just  one  minute!  " 

Gypsy  only  gave  her  a  little  hug  in  answer. 

Then  presently,  as  the  best  thing  she  could 
think  of,  to  say  — 

"  We'll  go  strawberrying  to-morrow,  and 
111  save  you  the  very  best  place.  Besides,  I've 


266  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

got  a  tart  up  stairs  I've  been  saving  for  you, 
and  you  can  eat  it  when  we  go  up  to  bed.  I 
think  things  taste  real  nice  in  bed.  Don't 
you?" 

"  Look  here,  Gypsy,  do  you  know  I  love 
you  ever  so  much  ?  " 

"  You  do  !  Well,  isn't  that  funny?  I  was 
just  thinking  how  much  I  loved  you.  Besides, 
I'm  real  glad  you're  going  to  live  here  always." 

"  Why,  I  thought  you'd  be  sorry." 

"  I  should  have  once,"  said  Gypsy  honestly. 
"  But  that's  because  I  was  ugly.  I  don't  think 
I  could  get  along  without  you  possibly  —  no, 
not  any  way  in  the  world.  Just  think  how 
long  we've  slept  together,  and  what  '  gales  '  we 
do  get  into  when  our  lamp  goes  out,  and  we 
can't  find  the  matches  !  You  see  I  never  had 
anybody  to  get  into  gales  with  before." 

Somebody  rang  the  door  bell  just  then,  and 
the  conversation  was  broken  up. 

"  Joy,  have  you  a  mind  to  go?"  asked  Mrs. 
Breyton.  "  Patty  is  out,  this  evening." 


A    SUNDAY   NIGHT.  267 

"Why!  whoever  it  is,  they've  come  right 
in,"  said  Joy,  opening  the  door. 

A  man  was  there  in  the  entry  ;  —  a  man  with 
heavy  whiskers  and  a  valise. 

The  rest  of  them  sitting  back  there  in  the 
dark  waited,  wondering  a  little  who  it  could  be 
coming  in  Sunday  night.  And  this  is  what 
they  heard, 

"  Joyce,  little  Joyce  !  — why  don't  be  fright 
ened,  child ;  it's  nobody  but  father." 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

GOOD-BY. 

/HEY  were  alone  together  in  the  quiet 
room  —  Peace  Maythorne  and  Joy. 
The  thick  yellow  sunlight  fell  in,  touch 
ing  the  old  places,  —  the  wall  where 
Gypsy's  blue  and  golden  text  was  hanging,  —  a 
little  patch  of  the  faded  carpet,  the  bed,  and  the 
folded  hands  upon  it,  and  the  peaceful  face. 

Joy  had  crept  up  somewhat  timidly  into 
Gypsy's  place  close  by  the  pillow.  She  was 
talking,  half  sadly,  half  gladly,  as  if  she  hardly 
knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

"  You  see  we're  going  right  off  in  this  noon 
train,  and  I  thought  I  must  come  over  and  say 
good-by," 


GOOD-BY.  2 1)  9 

99 


"  I'm  real  sorry  to  have  you  go,  —  real 

"  Are  you  ? "  said  Joy,  looking  pleased. 
«•  Well,  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  care.  I  do 
believe  you  care  for  everybody,  Peace." 

"I  try  to,"  said  Peace,  smiling.  "  You  go 
in  rather  a  hurry,  don't  you  Joy?  " 

"  Yes.  It's  just  a  week  since  father  came. 
He  wants  to  stay  a  while  longer,  dreadfully, 
but  he  says  his  business  at  home  can't  be  put 
off,  and  of  course  I  am  going  with  him.  Do 
you  know,  Peace,  I  can't  bear  to  have  him  out 
of  the  room  five  minutes,  I'm  so  silly.  It 
seems  all  the  time  as  if  I  were  dreaming  a  real 
beautiful  dream,  and  when  I  woke  up,  the  awful 
days  would  come  back,  and  he'd  be  dead  again. 
I  keep  wanting  to  kiss  him  and  feel  of  him  all 

the  time." 

"You  poor  child!"  said  Peace,  her  eyea 
dimming  a  little,  "  how  strange  it  all  has  been. 
How  good  He's  been  to  you,  — God." 

**  I    know   it.      I   know   He    has,    Peace. 


270  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

Wasn't  it  queer  how  it  all  came  about  ?  Gypsy 
says  nobody  but  God  could  have  managed  it  so, 
and  Auntie  says  he  must  have  had  some  very 
good  reason." 

"  You  see  father  was  sick  all  that  time  in  a 
little  out-of-the  way  French  town  with  not  a 
single  soul  he  knew,  and  nobody  to  talk  Eng- 

» 

lish,  and  so  sick  he  couldn't  write  a  word  —  out 
of  his  head,  he  says,  all  the  time.  That's  why  I 
didn't  hear,  nor  the  firm.  Then  wasn't  it  so 
strange  about  that  man  who  was  murdered  at 
St.  Pierre  ?  —  the  very  same  name,  —  George 
Breynton,  only  it  was  George  W.  instead  of 
George  M;  but  that  they  didn't  find  out  till 
afterwards.  Poor  man !  I  wonder  if  he  has 
anybody  crying  for  him  over  here.  Then  you 
know,  just  as  soon  as  ever  father  got  well 
enough  to  travel,  he  started  straight  home.  He 
said  he'd  had  enough  of  Europe,  and  if  he  ever 
lived  to  get  home,  he  wouldn't  go  another  time 
without  somebody  with  him.  It  wasn't  so  very 


GOOD-BY.  271 

pleasant  he  said,  to  come  so  near  dying  with  no 
body  round  that  you  knew,  and  not  to  hear  a  word 
of  your  own  language.  Then  you  know  he  got 
into  Boston  Saturday,  and  he  hurried  straight 
up  here ;  but  the  train  only  went  as  far  as  Rut 
land,  and  stopped  at  midnight.  Then  you  see 
he  was  so  crazy  to  see  me  and  let  me  know  he 
wasn't  dead,  he  couldn't  possibly  wait;  so  he 
hired  a  carriage  and  drove  all  the  way  over 
Sunday.  And  oh,  Peace,  when  I  saw  him  out 
there  in  the  entry  !  " 

"  I  guess  you  said  your  prayers  that  night," 
said  Peace,  smiling. 

* '  I  rather  guess  I  did  !  And  Peace  that 
makes  me  think"  —  Joy  grew  suddenly  very 
grave ;  there  was  an  earnest,  thoughtful  look  in 
her  eyes  that  Joy's  eyes  did  not  have  when  she 
first  came  to  Yorkbury  ;  a  look  tha*  they  had 
been  slowly  learning  all  this  year ;  that  they 
had  been  very  quickly  learning  these  past  few 
weeks —  «  When  I  get  home  it's  going  to  be 


272  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

hard ;  —  a  good  many  things  are  going  to  be 
hard." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Peace,  musingly.  Peace 
always  seem  to  see  just  what  other  people  were 
living  and  hoping  and  fearing,  without  any 
words  from  them  to  explain  it. 

"  It's  all  so  different  from  what  it  is  here.  I 
don't  want  to  forget  what  you've  told  me  and 
Auntie's  told  me.  Almost  everybody  I  know  at 
home  doesn't  care  for  what  you  do  up  here  in 
Yorkbury.  I  used  to  think  about  dancing- 
school,  and  birthday  parties,  and  rigging  up, 
and  summer  fashions,  and  how  many  diamonds 
I'd  have  when  I  was  married,  and  all  that,  the 
whole  of  the  time,  Peace  —  the  whole  of  it ; 
then  I  got  mad  when  my  dresses  didn't  fit,  and 
I  used  to  strike  Therese  and  Kate,  if  you'll 
believe  it  —  when  I  was  real  angry  that  was. 
Now  up  here,  somehow  I'm  ashamed  when  I 
miss  at  school ;  then  sometimes  I  help  Auntie  a 
little,  and  sometimes  I  do  try  not  to  be  cross. 


GOOD-BY . 


273 


Now  you  see  I'm  going  back,  aiid  father  he 
thinks  the  world  of  me,  and  let's  me  do  every 
thing  I  want  to,  and  I'm  afraid  "  -  Joy  stopped 
puzzled  to  express  herself—"  I'm  afraid  I 
shall  do  everything  I  want  to." 

Peace  smiled,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
"  Then  you  see  I  shall  grow  up  a  cross, 
old  selfish  woman,"  said  Joy  dolefully  ;  "  Auntie 
says  people  grow  selfish,  that  have  everything 
their  own  way.  You  see  up  here  there's  been 
Gypsy,  and  she  wanted  things  just  as  much  as 
I,  so  there've  been  two  ways  and  that's  the 
thing  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  to  grow  up  selfish," 
said  Peace,  slowly,  "  no,  I  am  sure  you 
needn't." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  how." 
"  Ask  Him  not  to  let  you,"  said  Peace  softly. 
Joy  colored. 

"I   know    it;    I've    thought    of  that.     But 
there's  another    trouble.      You    see    father  - 
18 


274  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

well,  he  doesn't  care  about  those  things.  Ho 
never  has  prayers  nor  anything,  and  he  used  to 
bring  me  novels  to  read  Sundays.  I  read  them 
then.  I've  got  all  out  of  the  way  of  it  up  here. 
I  don't  think  I  should  want  to,  now." 

"  Joy,"  said  Peace  after  a  silence,  "  I  think 

—  I  guess,  you  must  help  your  father  a  little. 
If  he  sees  you  doing  right,  perhaps,  —  he  loves 
you  so  very  much,  —  perhaps  by-and-by  he  will 
feel  differently." 

Joy  made  no  answer.  Her  eyes  looked  off 
dreamily  through  the  window;  her  thoughts 
wandered  away  from  Peace  and  the  quiet  room 

—  away  into  her  future,  which  the  young  girl 
seemed  to  see  just  then,  with  grave,  prophetic 
glance  ;  a  future  of  difficulty,  struggle,  tempta 
tion  ;  of  old  habits  and  old  teachings  to  be  bat- 
Lied  with ;  of  new  ones  to  be  formed ;  of  much 
to  learn  and  unlearn,  and  try,  and  try  again ; 
but  perhaps  —  she  still  seemed  to  see  with  the 
young  girl's  earnest  eyes  that  for  the  moment 


GOOD-BY.  275 

bad  quite  outgrown  the  child  —  a  future  faith 
fully  lived  and  well ;  not  frittered  away  in  beau 
tiful  playing  only,  butjilled  up  with  something  ; 
more  than  that,  a  future  which  should  be  a  long 
thank-offering  to  God  for  this  great  mercy  lie 
had  shown  her,  this  great  blessing  He  had  given 
her  back  from  the  grave ;  a  future  in  which, 
perhaps,  they  two  who  were  so  dear  to  each 
other,  should  seek  Him  together  —  a  future  that 
He  could  bless  to  them  both. 

Peace  quite  understood  the  look  with  which 
she  turned  at  last,  half  sobbing,  to  kiss  her 
good-by. 

"  I  must  go,  — it  is  very  late.  Thank  you, 
Peace.  Thank  you  as  long  as  I  live/' 

She  looked  back  in  closing  the  door,  to  see 
the  quiet  face  that  lay  so  patiently  on  the  pil 
low,  to  see  the  stillness  of  the  folded  hands,  to 
Bee  the  last,  rare  smile. 

She  wondered,  half  guessing  the  truth,  if  sha 
should  ever  see  it  again.  She  never  did. 


276  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

They  were  all  wondering  what  had  become 
of  her,  when  she  came  into  the  house. 

"  We  start  in  half  an  hour  Joyce,  my  dear,** 
said  her  father,  catching  her  up  in  his  arms  for 
a  kiss;  —  he  almost  always  kissed  her  now, 
when  she  had  been  fifteen  minutes  out  of  his 
sight,  —  "  We  start  in  half  an  hour,  and  you 
won't  have  any  more  than  time  to  eat  your 
lunch." 

Mrs.  Breynton  had  spread  one  of  her  very 
very  best  lunches  on  the  dining-room  table,  and 
Joy's  chair  was  ready  and  waiting  for  her,  and 
everybody  stood  around,  in  that  way  people 
will  stand,  when  a  guest  is  going  away,  not 
knowing  exactly  what  to  do  or  what  to  say, 
but  looking  very  sober.  And  very  sober  they 
felt;  they  had  all  learned  to  love  Joy  in  this 
year  she  had  spent  among  them,  and  it  was 
dreary  enough  to  see  her  trunks  packed  and 
strapped  in  the  entry,  and  her  closet  shelves  up 
stairs  empty,  and  all  little  traces  of  her  about 
the  house  vanishing  fast. 


GOOD-BY.  277 

4 « Come  along,"  said  Gypsy  in  a  savage 
undertone,  "  Come  and  eat,  and  let  the  rest 
stay  out  here.  I've  hardly  set  eyes  on  you  all 
the  morning.  I  must  have  you  all  myself 
now." 

* «  O  hum  ! "  said  Joy  attempting  a  currant 
tart,  and  throwing  it  down  with  one  little  semi 
circular  bite  in  it.  "  So  I'm  really  off,  and  this 
is  the  very  last  time  I  shall  sit  at  this  table." 

"  Hush  up,  if  you  please  !  "  observed  Gypsy, 
winking  hard,  "just  eat  your  tart." 

Joy  cut  off  a  delicate  mouthful  of  the  cold 

tongue,  and   then   began   to   look  around  the 

* 
room. 

"  The  last  time  I  shall  see  Winnie's  blocks, 
and  that  little  patch  of  sunshine  on  the  machine, 
and  the  big  Bible  on  the  book-case !  —  Oh, 
how  I  shall  think  about  them  all  nights,  when 
I'm  sitting  down  by  the  grate  at  home." 

"  Stop  talking  about  your  last  times!  It's 
bad  enough  to  have  you  go  anyway.  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  without  you." 


278  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Joy  shaking  her  head  mourn 
fully,  "  but  then  you  know,  we're  going  to 
write  to  each  other  twice  every  single  week." 

"I  know  it, —  every  week  as  long  as  we 
live,  remember." 

"  Oh,  I  shan't  forget.  I'm  going  to  make 
father  buy  me  some  pink  paper  and  envelopes 
with  Love  stamped  up  in  the  corners,  on  pur 
pose." 

"Anyway,  it's  a  great  deal  worse  for  me," 
said  Gypsy,  forlornly.  ' « You're  going  to  Bos 
ton,  and  to  open  the  house  again  and  all,  and 
have  ever  so  much  to  think  about.  I'm  just 
going  on  and  on,  and  you  won't  be  up  stairs 
when  I  go  to  bed,  and  your  things  won't  ever  be 
hanging  out  on  the  nails  in  the  entry,  arid  I'll 
have  to  go  to  school  alone,  and  —  O  dear  me  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  do  have  the  worst  of 
it,"  said  Joy,  feeling  a  great  spasm  of  magna 
nimity  in  bringing  herself  to  say  this  ;  « '  but  it's 


GOOD-BT.  279 

pretty  bad  for  me,  and  I  don't  believe  you  can 
feel  worse  than  I  do.  Isn't  it  funny  in  us  to 
love  each  other  so  much  ?  " 

61  Heal,"  said  Gypsy,  trying  to  laugh,  with 
two  bright  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks. 
Both  the  girls  were  thinking  just  then  of  Joy's 
coming  to  Yorkbury.  How  strange  that  it 
should  have  been  so  hard  for  Gypsy  ;  that  it  had 
cost  her  a  sacrifice  to  welcome  her  cousin  ;  how 
strange  that  they  could  ever  have  quarrelled  so ; 
how  strange  all  those  ugly,  dark  memories  of  the 
first  few  months  they  spent  together  —  the  jeal 
ousy,  the  selfishness,  the  dislike  of  each  other, 
the  constant  fretting  and  jarring,  the  longing 
for  the  time  that  should  separate  them.  And 
now  it  had  come,  and  here  they  sat  looking  at 
each  other  and  crying  —  quite  sure  their  hearts 
were  broken  1 

The  two  tears  rolled  down  into  Gypsy's 
smile,  and  she  swallowed  them  before  she 
spoke : 


280 

"  I  do  believe  it's  all  owing  to  that  verse !  " 

"What  verse?" 

"Why  Peace  Maythorne's.  I  suppose  she 
and  mother  would  say  we'd  tried  somehow  or 
other  to  prefer  one  another  in  honor,  you  know, 
and  that's  the  thing  of  it.  Because  you  see  I 
know  if  I'd  always  had  everything  my  own 
way,  I  shouldn't  have  liked  you  a  bit,  and  I'd 
have  been  real  glad  when  you  went  off." 

"  Joyce,  Joyce  !  "  called  her  father  from  the 
entry,  "Here's  the  coach.  It's  time  to  be 
getting  ready  to  cry  and  kiss  all  around." 

"Oh  —  hum  !  "  said  Gypsy. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Joy,  not  very  clear  as  to 
what  she  was  talking  about.  "  Where's  my 
bag?  Oh,  yes.  And  my  parasol ?  Oh  there's 
Winnie  riding  horseback  on  it.  Well,  Gypsy, 
go— od  —  " 

"  By,"  finished  Gypsy  with  a  great  sob. 
And  oh,  such  a  hugging  and  kissing  as  there 
was  then !  " 


GOOD-BY.  281 

Then  Joy  was  caught  in  her  Auntie's  arms, 
and  Tom's  and  Winnie's  all  at  once,  it  seemed 
to  her,  for  the  coachman  was  in  a  very  grea* 
hurry,  and  by  the  time  she  was  in  the  coach 
seated  by  her  father,  she  found  she  had  quite 
spoiled  her  new  kid  gloves,  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"  Good-by,"  called  Gypsy,  waving  one  of 
Winnie's  old  jackets,  under  the  impression  that 
it  was  a  handkerchief. 

"  Twice  every  week  !  " 

"  Yes  —  sure  :  on  pink  paper,  remember." 

"  Yes,  and  envelopes.  Good-by.  Good- 
by  !" 

So  the  last  nodding  and  smiling  was  over, 
and  the  coach  rattled  away,  and  the  house  with 
the  figures  on  the  steps  grew  dim  and  faded 
from  sight,  and  the  train  whirled  Joy  on  over 
the  mountains  —  away  into  that  future  of  which 
she  sat  thinking  in  Peace  Maythorne's  room  ; 
of  which  she  sat  thinking  now,  with  earnest 


282  GYPSY'S  COUSIN  JOY. 

eyes,  looking  off  through  the  car- window,  with 
many  brave  young  hopes,  and  little  fear. 

"  Tou'd  just  better  come  into  the  dining- 
room,"  said  Winnie  to  Gypsy,  who  was  stand 
ing  out  in  the  yard,  remarkably  interested  in 
the  lilac-bush,  and  under  the  very  curious  im 
pression  that  people  thought  she  wasn't  crying. 
"  I  think  it's  real  nice  Joy's  gone,  'cause  she 
didn't  eat  up  her  luncheon.  There's  a  piece  of 
pounded  cake  with  sugar  on  top.  There  were 
three  tarts  with  squince-jelly  in  'em  too,  but 
they  —  well,  they  aint't  there  now,  somewaya 
or  nuther." 


.sard,  Eliz. 
Gypsy's   c 


usin  Joy 


gy 


M89025 


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